


did u kno

by godlet



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Autistic Peter Parker, First Meetings, Hurt Peter Parker, Misunderstandings, Other, Protective Wade, evil bananas, plus 1 epilogue thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godlet/pseuds/godlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time Peter is near Deadpool, his spidey-sense rings loud and clear. Before he can figure out why, his body decides that it's time to cartwheel the heck outta there.</p><p>Cue the five times that Spider-Man makes a dynamic escape to get away from Wade, and the one time that he doesn't (wherein no one's too sure if that is a good thing or not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one thing

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING - GIF OF ACTUAL SPIDER AHEAD: [There’s a spider that uses its gymnastics skills to cartwheel away whenever it senses danger.](http://didyouknowblog.com/post/144977201977/theres-a-spider-that-uses-its-gymnastics-skills#_=_)

The first time Peter – AKA Spider-Man – runs into Deadpool, the overall experience is distinctly painful.

 

Literally. They knock right into each other.

 

Peter, as per usual, gets the worse end of the deal.

 

 _“Uooaaagh,”_ Deadpool groans as he throws his head a back and forth, making disgusted spitting sounds. “Why does my _face_ smell like the wrong end of an _ass?”_

 

Peter doesn’t have the time to wonder what the _right_ end of ‘an ass’ even is because he’s too busy clutching at his bruised inner thighs and crotch, just short of rolling on the gravel moaning in pain. Much like the other person covered in a similarly tight and colored red suit seems to have taken to doing, only less pained and more acceptingly floored.

 

“Honestly, my guy,” Deadpool continues, slapping the ground of the random roof they landed on with two limp hands as he seems to lounge, happily watching Peter try to stand after hitting both a person and the ground at high speeds, “who the hell just goes swinging around that low through the streets except dumbasses who want their nutsack to end up in some other guy’s face? I mean, come on, I’m trying to teleport here, you could at least – oh, wait, hold that pose _riiight_ there…”

 

Peter cringes as his nose digs into the loose rocks once again, hands clutching in between his thighs while he tries his best to get off of his side and onto his knees at the very least. It’s all that he can ask of himself in this sort of situation.

 

His senses prick when he hears the unmistakable sound of a cellphone’s fake digital ‘shutter’ close, signaling that a picture was just taken.

 

Automatically, Peter’s hand shoots out and fires a small pouch of webbing, covering the back of the other person’s phone with sticky white tar.

 

It was instinct; Peter has gotten so used to webbing people’s phones and cameras as Spider-Man at hard to quarantine crime scenes and in delicate situations where photos and videos are not appreciated that he just… reacted.

 

He realizes that he may have made a mistake when his spidey-senses tingle just barely on the edges of his sub-conscious. It makes his spine arch and tense when the unsettling tingle only builds instead of slowly dissipating from a single spike, which is the norm.

 

“Hoo boy, that’s uh…” Deadpool drawls out, bringing the webbed side of the phone to his face and bobbing his head slowly as he takes in the most likely irreparable damage to the small lens. “That’s probably not a good move, you know, webbing my personal property like that. I wasn’t even going to do anything with that picture, it was just for memories so that I could look back on this as that one time that that one guy in the red spandex’s crotch flew right into my – hold the fuck up…”

 

Deadpool moves his face so close to the phone that his nose is scrunched up against it. “Webbing… webbing… webbing? Wasn’t there something about a guy in red, webs, and blue swinging around with white stringy stuff in these parts, goo-ing up people left and right?”

 

Peter has the distinct feeling the he is Very Much Screwed.

 

“A _ha!”_ Deadpool crows finally, legs jerking upward in excitement as he snaps his fingers and points at the unnaturally still Spider-Man on the ground next to him. “You’re that _spider_ guy!” He chuckles as he throws his head back. “Man oh man; isn’t this just the vodka cherry to my baker’s chocolate fudge sundae. Or ‘Sunday’, since that’s what today is, right?” Deadpool makes vague motions towards Peter. “It _is_ Sunday, isn’t it? Huh, maybe it’s Wednesday…”

 

Peter’s body, once again, reacts without his consent, as one second he’s sprawled on the ground, the next he’s crouched and ready to spring despite the continuously blossoming pain near his crotch.

 

Deadpool holds up his hands in what should have been a disarming motion, but instead it flares Peter’s spidey-sense even more. “Whoa there my limber, lacking-in-limbs little spider friend.” He moves his head off to the side to mutter _“damn_ that was some good alliteration. I need to write that down… Anyway,” he stands, patting down his sides. _“I’m_ not the human pretending to be an arachnid at one in the morning, throwing their crotches into other people’s faces. Unless you’re, like, an _actual_ army of spiders under there, in that case _dubyew-tee-eff – “_

 

By this point, Peter is no longer paying very much attention to what his mind had identified as Deadpool – _mercenary, violent, unaffiliated, do not engage_ – is saying. Instead, he’s desperately fighting off a strange wave of disquieting panic that his overwhelmingly tickled spidey-sense is bringing on.

 

“ – don’t get me wrong, lots of mutants are rad looking, even in the wrong lighting, I mean have you met Rogue? Ugh, girl of my dreams and all that, if I actually did dream,” Deadpool taps the side of his head a little bit too hard to be casual. “And have you seen Prof. X? He’s pretty easy on the eyes if I do say so myself, like a love child between Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen – “

 

Peter’s muscles coil and bunch unpleasantly as his breathing seems to come a little too fast for him to properly get control of. Confusion runs rampant in his head as his senses never cease in their screaming mantra, begging him to run as soon as possible.

 

“ – and, you know, the difference between mu _tant_ and mu _tate_ is how butt fucking ugly the person is, obviously.” Deadpool appears to be looking off into the distance, head cocked slightly to the side. “The mutate being me, of course, but nobody’s gonna tell you about that because this plot isn’t – hey, whoa, are you not chill right now?”

 

Despite his current position clutching at fistfuls of gravel and panting like he just ran a marathon, Peter’s body decides that it is time to go, right now, immediately.

 

With one quick jerking approximation of a move that drags the sensitive soles of Peter’s feet harshly across the gravel, briefly startling a previously relaxed Deadpool, Spider-Man dances across the rooftop with nary a breath spared until his heels are pressed against the concrete edge bordering the rocky encampment.

 

“Yikes, there – “ Deadpool tries to say, holding one arm up and stepping forward.

 

Peter practically chokes on the breath he manages to suck in before he’s pivoting sideways, bracing hands adjacent to each other on the raised edge of the building, then _cartwheeling_ off of the side.

 

Yes; cartwheel. Not backflip. Not leap. Not side-hop, which honestly would have been more energy efficient. Cartwheel.

 

Peter has the distant vision of mentally face-palming himself while he falls several stories.

 

“Oh e _m gee!”_ Deadpool yells faintly above the noise of the rushing wind and subsequent slithering shot of web attaching itself to a nearby building. “Okay, _bye, I guess!”_

 

He breathes in heavily as his body adjusts to the rise and dip of swinging. Peter has no idea where he’s going – maybe, in the back of his head, his mental map is leading him through a series of natural autopilot movements, but he can’t concern himself with that right now.

 

A panic attack, an anxiety attack, a _breakdown._ He might as well call it like it is now – but why?

 

Why did his spidey-senses blare practically every mental and physical alarm, all over one person? A person who, technically, made zero threatening moves the entire time, aside from the whole ‘crotch, meet face’ fiasco that would probably haunt Peter to his mortified grave.

 

Maybe they were glaring the whole time, full of hidden malicious intent? That could set off his spidey-senses, especially on bad sensory days where every sound was too loud, every light too bright.

 

Peter sighs, muscle memory forcing his body to lock and release at the pertinent times in order to fling himself across the city, using the buildings as his platforms and his synthetic webs as his bungee cords. The ache between his legs dissipates in the wake of adrenaline, a true and tired – very, very tired – chemical.

 

On a particularly bright street of the Manhattan borough, Peter lands a bit unsteadily near one of his favorite hot dog pushcarts. People whisper and scatter, but generally settle down and move on with their fast-paced lives once they realize nothing exciting was about to happen. Aside from the presence of a ‘masked vigilante’, of course.

 

In it is an aging man who Spider-Man used to avoid due to his steely, wrinkly gaze speaking only of Death and Certain Disappointment. However, after one memorable event in which Spider-Man helped the old man release his pushcart from a crumbling pot hole after a slightly developmentally destructive disaster, the hotdog stand owner had decided to treat Peter just like any other customer and not the equivalent of a super-charged wanted criminal.

 

Unfortunately, this meant that Peter was routinely given the ‘back in my day’ talk while he ate his slightly bland free hotdog, not one to ask for extra when something was already paid for by someone else.

 

“What’s got ya’ pants around ya’ ankles, kid?” The native shouts over the din. Their Bronx accent is as thick as ever despite doing their business in Manhattan, and it makes Peter conscious enough to work on not pressing into his nose to let his own born and bred Queens accent through.

 

It also allows him to just sort of take a wild guess that the old man’s gibberish means something like ‘what’s wrong?’

 

“Nothin’, nothin’,” Peter replies casually as he hops up onto the sidewalk to stand next to the cart. “Just uh… well…” He loses his words somewhere in the passing car lights.

 

“Yuk-a-puk,” the old man spits out. “You’ve already had ya’ dog for today. Scram!”

 

Despite the harsh words, Peter knows that the old man is teasing. Mostly.

 

Feeling at least somewhat normal now, Peter tiptoes around the stand as he readies himself to latch onto another building with his webs. “Technically, it’s tomorrow,” he tells the stand man, knowing that they would probably react indignantly.

 

Sure enough, the old man swipes a hand at Peter and yells “Go on, git outta here!” as Spider-Man webs himself up and into the air. He’s gotten better at starting fast even from the ground, so he’s out of that area and onto another street in no time.

 

Peter swings himself to a few more mentally noted ‘crime hotspots’ before turning in for the night to his rinky dink apartment, situated within proverbial spitting distance of his Aunt May’s apartment in Ridgewood.

 

He turns in a few online assignments to his scant college courses, sets up the next folder full of possible photos for Jameson at work tomorrow, then bunkers down in his bed and seeks to stay as calm and rational about the whole… _experience,_ today as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is silly. And based entirely on a tumblr post that I didn't even reblog. Fuck me in the ass with random inspiration, why don't you. Chapters will vary in length, but essentially all but the +1 will include some sort of misunderstanding borne of Peter's stressful habit of going non-verbal around Deadpool (and subsequent cartwheeling escape. The cartwheels are a must.)
> 
> Either way, it's a good plan for breaking in my 'spideypool' skills. There's so many different versions of Deadpool that I'm not even going to ask anyone to tell me if I made my Deadpool Deadpool enough. Technically, deep deep down, we're _all_ Deadpool enough.
> 
> p.s. if you can't tell, Deadpool is trying REALLY hard to be 'cool' right here. This will only increase. Pray for him.


	2. two thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Deadpool's suicidal ideation, suspenseful/awkward/tense situations.

The next time Peter finds himself within the near (far?) vicinity of Deadpool, he can only tell because of the now marginally familiar feeling of building dread. It deviates so much from his usual spidey-senses that he can’t help but categorize it.

 

He isn’t out on a simple night patrol this time. Instead, he’s aiding a small team of the Avengers in a seek-and-destroy mission over on Staten Island among the warehouses of the surrounding docks. It’s sort of a cliché scene… or at least that’s what Peter thinks about the whole thing.

 

Of course, it _would_ have been a seek-and-destroy mission… if only a byproduct of whatever they were seeking and destroying didn’t cause the Avenger’s comms to scatter their signals and not connect, thus leaving each Avenger without a way to quickly contact another.

 

Peter doesn’t have a comm anyway, mostly because he knows SHIELD. And SHIELD is always up to no good. It’s best not to trust them with anything technological. Or food related.

 

“Dammit,” Falcon curses under his breath, prodding at a device lit up on his forearm with furrowed brows mostly hidden by red-tinted goggles. “I can’t get a signal. Whatever Stark went off to do isn’t working.”

 

Peter stands, quiet and observing, near the corner edge of the building. Falcon had launched Captain America up to the roof to join Peter once they realized that Iron Man, previously the one who flew off with an order to stay put, wasn’t going to be back anytime soon, meaning that there was a problem somewhere yet to be resolved that was halting progress.

 

He clenches and unclenches his hands nervously as the smallest amount of warning begins prickling at his senses. Once again, it doesn’t dissipate after only a sharp spike, allowing Peter to leap out of the way of whatever danger he senses in the nick of time. Instead, it builds; slowly, agonizingly, crossing wires and abusing chemicals so that his energy depletes even faster for apparently _no reason at all._

 

At the top of Spider-Man’s list of ‘things to never get caught doing by the Avengers, lest I be faced with death via mortification’, having a breakdown was most likely near number one. It competes heavily with the whole secret identity reveal thing.

 

He can tell when someone like Black Widow side-eyes him, giving him slight warnings as for when to adjust his outward behavior if possible. The superspy was no doubt used to keeping tabs on Bruce Banner and their mannerisms, some of which they unwittingly shared with Peter in his attempts to hide as much of his neurodivergence as possible.

 

Peter isn’t necessarily _ashamed_ of his autism – he’s afraid of the repercussions of having other people find out when he doesn’t _want_ them to find out. The most he could hope for in terms of knowledge and understanding from the aforementioned team was about children; definitely not the same as a functional autistic adult.

 

Plus, as he has scolded himself time and time again, being outed like that would make his secret identity easier to target and pick out – professional diagnosis on file or not.

 

His musings are interrupted by the jarring buzz of his spidey-senses, causing him to hop lightly on the balls of his feet in an attempt to release the energy that he really shouldn’t be using right now.  Falcon barely even spares his ‘odd’ behavior a glance, too busy fiddling with the unresponsive wrist unit, but Captain America raises an eyebrow and pretends to not be staring, shifting in stiff stances.

 

The possible plans that a panicking Peter Parker might currently be concocting involves either:

 

(a) Nervously chattering on about the mission or the first thing that pops into his head, possibly destroying whatever marginally serious if untrustworthy and rocky relationship he has with this portion of the Avengers team.

 

(b) Skittering down the side of the building in an escaping bid for freedom from the oppressive screaming of his spidey-senses. Maybe if he runs really, _really_ far away, everything will be A-okay.

 

Or (c) Some horrifying combination of A and B, which would pose as a fantastically awful distraction in order to accomplish both ruining his budding relationships and fleeing from his problems.

 

Clearly, his mental path of operations runs less than smoothly in these sorts of situations. Give him a break; he has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

 

Of course, this is all grinding to a halt when his ears prick at the obnoxious sound of water splashing from down below on the docks. This sense is barely picked up amongst the sudden _clang_ s and _pop_ s of his warning bells clashing against each other in a webby mess of bioengineered survival instinct gone haywire.

 

Once again, Peter has the distinct feeling that he is Very Much Screwed.

 

“Finally,” Falcon mutters, looking away from his wrist screen in order to peer over the edge at something wet, grumbling, and loud climbing its way up and out of The Narrows. “Our backup just arrived.”

 

“Well, he’s a little late to the party. Not that there ever was one,” Captain America remarks, walking over to stand next to his teammate and look down at the red figure making its complaining way over to the building. “Doesn’t he uh… Doesn’t he have a ‘teleportation device’ he’s supposed to be using?”

 

“Yes,” Falcon responds shortly. Then he leaps off of the building without another word, unfolding his chrome-colored wings and swooping down upon the trawling person below, presumably to pick them apart and consume their bones in some sort of magnificent metal bird ritual.

 

Captain America sighs in a resigned way, turning towards Peter with a kind face. Peter purposefully shifts his eyes to the floor. It doesn’t work. It never works, honestly, he doesn’t know why he tries. If it’s ineffective against loud shop owners on the streets, it’s going to be even more-so ineffective against Captain America.

 

“How you holding up over there, Spider-Man?”

 

Peter cocks his head to the side, masticates the verbal words bouncing around in his head, then settles on a hasty thumbs-up thrown at the Avenger several yards away. It’s about as good as it’s going to get in terms of communication.

 

To the man’s credit, Captain America only hesitates for a few confused seconds before he’s giving Peter a quirk of a smile and a similar thumbs-up in return. “We won’t be out here for too much longer, I don’t think. Sorry for dragging you out of your uh… out of your neighborhood for a shelved job.”

 

It’s appreciated, the way Captain America tries to treat Spider-Man like a weirdly sensitive ally, if a bit dehumanizing or infantilizing in nature. On most days, Peter can take it with a few wavey hand motions and a casual shrug before webbing away. On others, he wonders whether today will be the day that he finally tests his real strength against Captain America.

 

At least it isn’t Iron Man up here trying to ‘reassure’ Spider-Man. That man is only about 40% Good, as Peter roughly calculates. The other 60% is cryptically labeled Hidden Agenda – AKA “Probably Evil” – which is weird considering Iron Man is the number one candidate that SHIELD chooses to send after him when trying to convince Spider-Man to unmask and publicly join the Avengers.

 

Of course, Spider-Man always responds with a very firm ‘no’, sometimes even verbally. That doesn’t stop SHIELD from using any means necessary to track him down and call him up for morally non-refuseable ‘missions’ with the Avengers team, though.

 

Off in the sky darkened distance, Iron Man’s near unmistakable suit roars and purrs like a well-oiled machine, closing in on their location within moments. Captain America abandons whatever verbal conversation he was trying to create with the non-verbal Spider-Man and looks to the light polluted night.

 

Falcon, on the ground accosting a still grumbling man in red – Peter refuses to say the name in his head just yet, afraid of the very real consequences of going into full on breakdown mode right now – waves Iron Man over.

 

Iron Man diverts his course slightly, landing on the concrete area next to the docks in front of Falcon instead of on the roof with Captain America and Spider-Man.

 

Peter can already tell from the slightly raised voices and generally prickly mien that the mission is most likely not a go tonight. Captain America must, too, as the super solider takes a soft leap down to the ground, stopping and waiting patiently for Spider-Man to join as well in some sort of unidentifiable gesture.

 

Despite the never-ending mental vibrations of his spidey-senses, Peter crawls down the side of the building until he, too, is on the ground. Down here, his warning bells are much more frantic than before. It’s an intense struggle to fight against them.

 

He barely even notices Captain America coming to stand fairly close to him as his purposefully lowered peripherals catch sight of an indignantly yelling Deadpool.

 

“Of _course_ I lost my teleporter – I _always_ lose my teleporter!” The mercenary explains with hands splayed outward and a quick shake of the head, standing over Falcon with quite a few inches. Though that may just be because he’s balancing on his toes. _“Maybe_ I got drunk with ‘Canadian-And-Not-A-Wolf, Bub’ and woke up somewhere weird again. Or _maybe_ this level doesn’t have the proper quick-time events needed to use the ‘ _selected item.’_ Take your pick!”

 

“Remind me why we were told we needed to get this guy on the case again,” Iron Man throws at Falcon drolly, apparently electing to ignore Deadpool’s nonsensical spiel. He smoothly turns to Captain America without waiting for a response. “Hey there, Spangles – mission’s off. Can’t find a way to fix the radio tower so that these waves frying our signals won’t affect our comms anymore.”

 

“Then we’ll just have to go in without ears, if there’s no other way,” Captain America speaks up firmly from somewhere surprisingly close to Peter, causing him to jump slightly into the air like a frightened cat and move away by several feet.

 

All of his systems blare to previously thought impossible levels as a pair of hauntingly familiar whited-out eyes swivel to lock onto Peter’s form.

 

Very. Much. Screwed.

 

Deadpool lets out a long gasp that is mostly ignored by the current company as he brings up his hands to the sides of his face, tugging on his mask. He seems to be either stunned into silence or quietly building up in excitement.

 

Peter desperately doesn’t want to stick around and find out which outcome is worse.

 

“Did I say ‘mission canceled?” Iron Man says a bit cattily in that sing-song, quick tongue voice of his that is somewhat ruined by the automated drone of the suit. “Because I think I just did. I’ll have a solution within about, hmm, let’s say twenty or so hours, give or take ten. Most likely take.”

 

Captain America, ever the phlegmatic being, only nods stoically in the face of the business man. “That will work – as long as they don’t move operations within the next few days, we should still be able to get the drop on – “

 

“Hey!” Deadpool suddenly crows, waving one broad arm back and forth quickly as if the four other people within close proximity won’t be able to see nor hear him unless he shouts and moves as much as possible. “Hey, there, guy who flips off of buildings! How’s your crotch? Does it still hurt? Do you still bodily throw yourself into everybody else’s _bees_ wax – “

 

“Unbelievable,” Iron Man chimes in before any sort of stunned silence can overcome the group, which is great because Peter was just about to give in to the urge to scream and never stop. “You’ve met The Ultimate Spiderling? Say it ain’t so.”

 

“Met? _Met!?”_ Deadpool barks out an incredulous laugh, snorting heavily as he dances a little bit in place. “Oh, my Brave Little Toaster – we’ve done more than just _met._ We’ve connected. _Bonded._ Intertwined in a way that only someone’s groin can with someone else’s face at a hundred miles per – “

 

“Okay, I’ve heard enough delusions for one night,” Iron Man announces, booting up his palm and foot flight repulsers in order to hover quite loudly and theatrically in the air. “I think we’re all done here.”

 

Unfortunately, the quietly hyperventilating Spider-Man is put under near literal spotlight seconds later when Iron Man’s bright beam slotted eyes turn to him. There are several breathless moments where Iron Man stares down at Peter before saying, finally, “Spider-Man,” in such a short and succinct way that Peter can’t tell what sort of inflection is added in. He just assumes that it’s a bare-minimum polite goodbye.

 

Next, Iron Man briefly turns towards Deadpool, just barely getting out a scathing “Discount Spider-Man,” before rocketing off into the city smog, presumably back to the Avengers tower.

 

“Augh, _lame!”_ Deadpool calls after the leaving Avenger, cupping his hands around his masked mouth as if he could be heard. “He’s _totes_ Discount Deadpool, _not the other way around!”_

 

Falcon shakes his head and looks back down to his wrist screen, once again taking to fiddling with it. Thankfully, his voice has lost that frustrated edge. “Hey, Cap, I’m going to go on ahead and fly to the tower, see how the reception is along the way and find a start and end point. You good here?”

 

“Yea,” Captain America nods amicably, “I have a feeling that my car is going to be uh…” He takes a slow, twisting gander around to view Deadpool and Spider-Man, the taller of the two taking minute side-steps closer to the shorter, who looks like they’re about to bolt at any second. “Going to be pretty full, though.”

 

Falcon raises an eyebrow and quirks a smile. “I’ll walk you over to make sure that no…” He also takes a look towards Deadpool and Spider-Man. He sort of cringes when the mercenary shuffles closer to the jittery looking humanoid spider. “No _fights…_ break out.”

 

Captain America nods, bringing his fingers to his mouth to whistle, appears to think better of it, then settles on clapping his hands once. “Okay, you two! Who needs a ride back over to Brooklyn?”

 

“Oh, oh, oh; I do!” Deadpool shouts excitedly, his hand shooting up into the air, along with most of his body in a single stiff hop.

 

Unfortunately, this startles Peter just as much as the last sudden movement, as he finds himself jumping right along with Deadpool, only he goes several feet away again.

 

This seems to alert Deadpool to the fact that Peter still exists, as the mercenary takes to staring at him very obviously, whole body aimed towards Spider-Man in an intimidating loom that he very viciously points his gaze away from in some sort of last-ditch attempt at faking invisibility.

 

Once again, Peter is frozen by some unknown fear holding him hostage deep inside. It makes him unnaturally stiff, muscles just waiting for the next reason to spring, to release this pent up nerves that is in actuality a faked reserve, forcing him to use energy that he honestly _does not have_ for a cause he _doesn’t understand._

 

Captain America is saying something, but that’s drowned out when Deadpool makes a small movement of the arm, and suddenly Peter’s head is snapping up and over to look at them without his express permission.

 

There’s a wet, seeping spot of what Peter can only guess is drool and not left over strait water on Deadpool’s mask, which his mind – now running on only pungent city fumes – finds to be quite peculiar. The mercenary’s suit seems to be more than just spandex, thicker and almost leathery, meaning that it would take quite a bit of spit to collect and bleed through like that.

 

Deadpool seems to have a slight nervous fit in which his limbs spasm and his head jerks back and forth a bit, but his white eyes never leave Spider-Man’s. “Are you… not chill right now?” He asks, leaning forward even more. Then, in a loud whisper that may or may not be joking, may be a part of some sort of delusion, _“Are you even breathing?”_

 

Spider-Man responds to that by scampering over to a still talking Captain America’s side.

 

 _“Spi_ \- oh,” Captain America breathes out, trading a confused glance with Falcon at the sudden reaction. “Well, alright. Let’s… get you home. Deadpool!” The super soldier calls at the either stunned or distracted mercenary. “We’re heading out!”

 

Ever the perceptive sort, Captain America hovers his limbs at and around Spider-Man until the human arachnid is herded to walk mostly in front of him, setting a quick pace back to the edge of the warehouse district in order to approach a topless jeep with an unknown metal contraption strapped to the back.

 

Peter would love to ask about that – really, he would, it seems super interesting, just as long as Iron Man doesn’t come within ten feet of him while explaining – but he’s currently too busy being hyperaware of the mercenary silently stalking them from only a handful of yards back. Tiny, barely controllable shivers work their way up and down his body.

 

Falcon walks somewhere in front of them, coming to stand a little ways away from the dark jeep itself. He appears to be staring at the only other person behind Captain America and Spider-Man.

 

Before Peter can mentally question why Falcon is idling there, he calls out “Deadpool! A word, please?”

 

As Peter and Captain America approach the car, the super soldier already reaching inside the door-less front seat to start the engine, Deadpool goes skipping past with nary a sound. Among the rippling screaming confusion of his spidey-senses at the small fright, the visage also gives Peter’s mind a pause.

 

Has Deadpool been… _skipping_ the whole time?

 

 _“Yeeeess,_ Missus Wilson?” Deadpool drawls as he skids to a stop, folding his hands mock-demurely in front of his crotch and doing something with his covered eyes that may or may not be an attempt to rapidly flutter unseen eyelashes. “What does my same-name honey-bunches of scary metal feathers need? Me and my, _ample hammer space,”_ here he waggles his near imperceptive eyebrows, “can surely provide in a variety of ways.”

 

The very clear picture in Peter’s mind of Deadpool hauntingly moving through the shadows, eyes focused on Spider-Man’s exposed back like a predator, is reluctantly washed away and replaced with something mostly unidentifiable, but might be a form of incredulity messily mixed with relief.

 

Whatever soft, firm words spoken by Falcon towards Deadpool are drowned out by Captain America starting the jeep. Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t jump at the noise, not even when Captain America leans out of the car and looks at Peter with now helmet-less eyes.

 

“Well, you can have any seat that you want. Oh,” Captain America gives him an easy smile, “except the driver’s spot. That one’s mine.”

 

The words that Peter wants to say get caught somewhere between his lungs and his ribs, squirming around just on the side of unbearably uncomfortable. Instead, he finds the control in himself to silently fold his body into the left backseat of the car, immediately pressing his forehead into the headrest of the front driver’s seat in an attempt at pressure stimming his worries away. By the way his right leg is jiggling violently up and down, however, he’s guessing that it isn’t working as well as he hoped it would.

 

Thankfully, Captain America is a very tactile person when it comes to other people, as he makes no comment on Spider-Man’s non-verbal and less than sociable behavior as he, too settles himself into the car. His helmet is placed in the passenger’s seat.

 

Eventually, Deadpool finishes the conversation with Falcon and comes to the car. The only reason that Peter can tell this is happening, however, is because Falcon stops using the ‘military man’ voice that inexplicably reminds him of his uncle Ben, causing him to involuntarily focus.

 

That, and Deadpool begins loudly complaining about something.

 

“Aww, but America’s Best _Tiiits!”_ The red mercenary exclaims, possibly even stomping a booted foot. “I _promise_ I won’t try to yank the steering wheel away this time if we see a celebrity!”

 

“No, Deadpool,” Captain America says in a firm and exasperated voice. “You’re banned from shotgun. You’ve _been_ banned from shotgun since the _last_ three repeats of the exact same stunt. Now, get in the car.”

 

Get in the car.

 

“Uugh,” Deadpool groans. “Whatever, daddy,” he says in a falsetto, heavy, sing-song Brooklyn accent that makes Captain America cringe so hard that the second-hand embarrassment is felt throughout the car.

 

…Get in the car.

 

Something – no, _someone_ heavy drops into the seat right next to Peter.

 

“Ooh, super naughty happy fun times in the back of the carpool before daycare,” _the_ voice says much too close. “We all know where _that_ pelvis has been recently, _ahm-aye-riiight?”_

 

 _Get in the_ exploitive deleted _car._

 

Peter has the crashing realization that he has just made a _very_ big mistake. That he should never have agreed to get in the car – or, more like – let himself be directed towards the car with the Captain’s calm, controlled words. That he should’ve been more aware of the conversations going on around him instead of letting them filter in and out of his brain as gibberish all tossed around in a social salad bowl.

 

This is punctuated by all of his senses seeming to come to a complete halt. All that is left is the pumping of blood in his ears as his body takes a few frozen moments to reboot itself.

 

“So, what do you say about changing your official name, huh, Discount Dead _pal?_ I’m putting my gratuitous amounts of blood money on ‘Spiderpool’,” here Deadpool pauses his rambling to giggle. “But the other option still open for quick like sand consideration is ‘Dead-Man’, which is totes a spesh idea for all ages, something that we can really sell to the kiddos – “

 

Deadpool moves his body in some way – probably just to re-adjust himself in the seat – as Captain America silently pretends not to be listening intently while they begin slowly turning the jeep and driving out of the parking lot.

 

Peter’s body and mind react like someone just pointed the world’s biggest gun at his forehead.

 

The past unknown stretch of time that Peter has spent constantly being buffeted by his loud, intrusive, _scared_ spidey-senses comes to a head in the form of a frightened shrieking noise coming from the back of his throat as he tosses his weight backwards, lifts himself up and out of his seat, then braces his body against the metal frame at head height.

 

Captain America hits the brakes mere moments after they began rolling as Peter deftly lifts himself up, onto, and over the metal bar in a memorably executed cartwheel fueled by that split second when you go to take another step, only for your foot to fall down into air and obscurity, jump-starting your heart by several unsafe paces.

 

He continues his purely panicked cartwheels until he hits a block, leaping up onto what appears to be a tall tower of discarded wooden boxes, landing in such a curled and wound up position that his knees practically touch his ears.

 

Now he has a perfect birds-eye view of Captain America, Deadpool, and the recently landed Falcon all proceeding to freak out over the new development he just caused.

 

“Spider-Man?” Captain America asks worriedly as he steps out of the jeep, staring up at Peter like he had just seen the other sit on top of an active grenade or something equally shocking and concerning.

 

“What in the world did you do to him?” Falcon questions Deadpool, briskly striding up to the mercenary and looking like he is just short of physically accosting him.

 

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!” Deadpool shoots back angrily. He looks down at his boots and throws his head side to side as if he can’t decide on what to do, spitting out a grutal “Agh! _Shit!”_ before pivoting on his feet and moving towards the docks.

 

“Where are you going?” Falcon demands, eyes following the tense figure.

 

“To _hell!”_ Deadpool throws back. Then he stops at the edge to tap his head a few times, once again too hard to be anything but painful. “Not where you’re going, that’s for fucking sure.” He turns his head to look directly at Spider-Man, still tightly perched atop the unconventional wooden throne, as he says so.

 

Peter can’t help it – he slumps somewhat in relief and release of tension at the announcement. His spidey-senses are even starting to calm down now that there is more than just a few yards – or heaven forbid it be repeated, only a few inches – between himself and the mysterious mercenary.

 

Deadpool’s gaze stays glued to Spider-Man for a few heart-stopping moments before he stomps his way closer to the edge. _“Yup._ Toodles.”

 

Captain America looks like he’s about to say something with his opening mouth, but Deadpool whips around to point and yell “And _you!”_ which draws the near unflappable super soldier up short. “Put an _underwire sports_ _bra_ on or something before you poke somebody’s eye out with those double D dad pockets of love and concern, _tee-em!_ Think of the innocent children for Freedom and Liberty’s sakes!”

 

With that, Deadpool salutes the two war veterans and awkward arachnid before stiffly falling sideways into The Narrows once again, leaving in the same unorthodox way that he came.

 

Captain America mouths a heartily confused ‘tee-em?’ at Falcon, who only shakes his head slowly in response with a down-turned mouth.

 

Peter has to keep from verbally info-dumping the premise of a meme to these two – technically – middle-aged men.

 

Captain America heaves a sigh, rubs a hand through his short hair, then turns his attention back to Spider-Man. You can physically see the way that the super soldier pockets his emotions and decides to deal with them later. Peter is immensely impressed.

 

Peter makes sure to empathetically decline any offer to get in the car and have an easy ride back over to Brooklyn, making a big show of webbing himself to the nearest tall buildings in order to get back to the main part of Staten Island. From there, he has a good head start on crossing the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge ahead of Captain America’s jeep.

 

Unfortunately, by the time he gets into the thick of Brooklyn, he realizes that Falcon is discreetly attempting to tail him. The perceivable warnings only come when he hears the distinct sound of the slithery, clinking metal shafts of Falcon’s wings sliding together somewhere from above.

 

So, instead of going straight home to Queens like he desperately wants to, Spider-Man hits up the patrol spots that he didn’t get to earlier in the night.

 

There’s something about the routine – the act of repeating the same thing over and over again throughout the past few years – that leaves Peter with a sort of numb calm about him. He knows by now not to take it for granted, nor to thank it for its existence, as it’s the kind of calm that alludes to repressed emotions and accumulated stress rather than any sort of healthy coping methods.

 

After a particularly hard and fast drug bust in which Spider-Man pockets the money he finds then redistributes it to the smatterings of homeless people along the way, Falcon finally seems to leave him alone.

 

Peter makes his way home, wondering just what Falcon would report back about Spider-Man. Would they tell the Avengers about how Spider-Man seems to put only the bare minimum of faith in the NYPD? About how he webs up criminals, but disappears right afterwards? He’s no fool – he knows by now that the tidbit about him specifically taking and then giving away the drug money wouldn’t be left out.

 

As he returns to his apartment, softly shutting the window and methodically beginning to strip out of his sweat-soaked suit, Peter begins to ponder just why Falcon was following him anyways. Of course, his binary mind adds some instinctually taken mental notes up despite his weariness.

 

He remembers being fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and still needing all the help he can get, but not taking it due to some sort of misplaced pride or embarrassment, maybe even a little bit of survivor’s guilt. He wonders how old the avengers even think he is now – they treated him more like an adult when he wasn’t one.

 

The point that Peter focuses on is how they’re treating him _now_ – they most likely found his less-than-chatty behavior odd, and perhaps even attributed it to the presence of Deadpool. Especially after the… _cartwheeling_ incident.

 

Peter palms his forehead as he makes himself a bowl of whatever cereal he has despite knowing that it would be far from substantial with his literal monster metabolism, folding up on his messy bed and tiredly spooning tasteless flakes. He’s sort of glad that it has little to no flavor, as he isn’t sure that he could handle the sensory input at this moment.

 

At this, he begins to think of his aunt May. He’s always thinking of his aunt May, actually, in some form or another. As he places a mostly empty bowl on his cluttered bedside table and curls up on his blankets, easily giving in to the whims of his executive dysfunction rearing its ugly head, he decides that he’s going to use some of his cinched free time to visit her soon. Maybe returning to his ‘roots’ could help him in some unexplainably emotionally reaching way.

 

Also, he thinks as he buries his face into his softest blanket and rubs his nose back and forth in a repetitive movement, he’s really low on food. And he needs to do his laundry. Preferably for free.

 

Peter can’t help but feel like, of all his wacky and inane experiences while being Spider-Man – which is a frankly concerning way to describe the dangerous life he leads – this developing oddity with Deadpool takes the cake. It takes the cake and runs the heck away with it, spouting nonsense as it goes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool and Spider-Man are similar in the aspect that they're sort of expected to be constantly talking/quipping/active. When they're not, then people begin to assume that something is wrong. So, here, where Spider-Man is 100% non-verbal and nearly non-responsive as well, people are either thinking that he's majorly pissed or that something is really wrong. 
> 
> Deadpool drooling isn't a sexual thing. I feel like he leaves his mouth open a lot on accident, whether to breath or just because he's concentrating/not aware of it, also he talks a lot, and like a person with braces/a retainer, the drool just sort of... collects. He's still trying to impress Spidey, which, as you can tell, Is Not Working.
> 
> p.s. Peter talks next chapter/is actually rarely non-verbal. Deadpool is... an exception. A very scary one.
> 
> p.p.s. I didn't take away Deadpool's teleporter for any big reason. I just realized how much funnier it would be if he showed up without it. If you wanna know what Sam/Tony are yelling at him about, it's how he didn't just use the bridge and fucking _swam_ to the meet site. Also no-one likes Wolverine (except Peter. Who is a sweetheart 99% of the time. The other 1% is why people are scared of him when he's quiet.)


	3. three thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Awkward/tense situations, second-hand embarrassment, threats of violence, unsettling descriptions (of food)

 

Peter stifles a yawn politely behind his hand as he tiredly shuffles his way into the fluorescent lit building. His arm automatically drifts to the right, only for him to come up short and blearily look over when he closes his hand several times on nothing but thin air.

 

None of the hand baskets are in their usual spot… in the hand basket rack.

 

The young adult huffs quietly as his eyes search the room through the slightly pounding headache he developed sometime between his apartment and the little corner store he dislikes frequenting, but does so anyway due to its out-of-the-way personality and low flow of traffic. It only orders a very small, sad, and bruised amount of ‘fresh’ fruits and vegetables every week, but he shops at odd hours anyway, and has just as much of a chance as anybody at buying some.

 

Peter continues on with a small spike of anxiety at his silent blunder, spotting only one person at the single checkout line as he passes. They are fairly young, and have one of the tabloid magazines often found for sale on shelves near the entrance in their hands as they apathetically leaf through it.

 

Still – he knows by now not to let only his eyes deceive him. Being in the store feels a bit… odd. Like they moved something out of place, but he can’t quite pinpoint what that something is. It unsettles him more than he’s willing to admit to himself, so he runs on an awkwardly gaited autopilot through his usual routine trek among the shelves.

 

Since he doesn’t have any sort of basket, he jadedly decides to forgo getting any actual groceries this trip. He attempts to convince himself that he can pinch a few more pennies this week if he skips getting food, even though he knows that this false nicety won’t help him in the long run. He’ll still be just as close to the poverty line next month, except this time several pounds lighter.

 

He once again tries to reassure himself – _great care, great power, great responsibility, great sacrifice._ The price of being a hero is steep in ways one wouldn’t expect.

 

…Then he looks at the discounted, nearly expired bread and feels a little bit silly, blaming his introspective and somewhat dramatic thoughts on his lack of sleep and the daily devoid of calm. Possibly even the bruising all down his back from where he ran into a warmongering helicopter hijacker before work. Once again, it was quite literal, only this time twice as painful, as he was harshly flung into the side of a building multiple times before he managed to end the fight, retrieve the person from the helicopter, and web the giant flying machine into a stalled state.

 

Physically shaking his head in a nervous tic that has him throwing his gaze around the store to spot anyone who might be observing him, he notes that the singular employee has moved from their counter as he passes by all of his usual food items with a carefully restrained gaze.

 

Adding to what this store is as a grocery – albeit a fairly run-down and sad one – it also has a large stock of spirits. And by that Peter means: aunt May likes a very specific, cheap bottle of chocolate wine that honestly makes both his tongue curl and his stomach clench. This isn’t one of the only places that he can get it, but it’s technically the closest store to his apartment that isn't too popular, and he isn’t willing to go out of his way right now. Not while healing.

 

The ’other beverages’ section is all the way in the shadowed back with a strategically broken ceiling light, and Peter has to turn a few corners before his tired autopilot lets him go off course, heading directly towards the last line of shelves –

 

Heart suddenly leaping into his throat, causing his whole body to freeze and his breathing to stutter to a stop, warning bells chime and ring in his mind. They’re quiet, subdued, and tired - but still there. Still re-routing all of his bodily functions to an immediate and draining fight-or-flight mode.

 

A single spike of a warning, and suddenly Peter is initiating a panicked and messy cartwheel that surprises his mind more than his body. His jacket drags, hangs, and catches, being something unnaturally heavy and distracting compared to the skintight body suit he's normally wearing when doing something like this.

 

Soon, both of his feet are planted silently on the floor in a crouch behind the nearest line of shelves.

 

He’s only allowed a few thoroughly confused seconds of putting everything in his mind into as much order as he conceivably can before he’s being physically approached by the checkout worker.

 

“Are you okay?” They ask simply, a concerned but otherwise mostly blank expression on their face. Maybe they didn’t even witness The Cartwheel of Defense, only poking their visual spectrum out of bounds in time to spot a customer appearing to have a panic attack on the floor.

 

It takes a bile tainted swallow and a mental work around for Peter to get the words out of his mouth. “Yea, yea, I’m okay, I-I’m alright. Everything’s cool.”

 

Everything is so very obviously _not cool._ He cannot even begin to conceptualize how 'not chill' he is right now.

 

The employee spares him a dubious look before peering around the shelves. At what they see, they give a particularly annoyed _tsk_ of the mouth. “Do you know that guy?”

 

Still nothing more than a confused and shaken up ball of nerves, Peter does something borne of stupidity and lack of foresight, craning to the side until he can see around the line of shelves he hastily decided to crowd behind.

 

Exactly three seconds later, Peter whips his head forward again with a wheezing breath. No _wonder_ his general unease at coming inside the store was so distracting – it was his wrung out and exhausted spidey-senses trying to warn him in that annoying, unexplainable way it had developed within the last day or two.

 

Because the person who is standing (dancing) in between two long carts of fruits, stacking up every single banana the store could possibly have ordered this week into an entire army of hand baskets and humming ‘ _Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts_ ’ under their breath, is undeniably Deadpool.

 

“No,” Peter responds much too late to be socially acceptable, his voice strained and quick like a desperate punch. Then he realizes that he isn't responding so much as mouthing the word full of dread to his stunned self, and elaborates. “No, I-I don’t know him.”

 

He is lying and it feels like a _sin._

 

“Oh, bummer,” is all the employee responds with, sending Deadpool another cringed glance.

 

There's a beat of silence. Peter hopes it stretches.

 

“Sometimes, he comes in here and asks where we’re 'hiding _Spider-Man.'_ It’s always when _I’m_ working, too.”

 

...Aw, nuts.

 

There was _one time_ – okay, maybe more than one time – that ‘Spider-Man’ had made a quick pit stop at this store exactly, too hurried or tired to change and go without the fast travel of webbing places. He had stupidly considered the ramifications of publicly showing up at one spot repeatedly only _after_ the media began to harass the owner.

 

He never thought that a _mercenary_ would come sniffing, though – specifically: _this_ mercenary.

 

There is a small pause from the employee, their gaze listing off to the side. “I think this guy is gonna make me quit,” they admit weakly, as if reluctant to divulge such personal information to a stranger with kind, if harrowed, eyes.

 

Peter pauses in his rapid-minded hare race to the nearest exit as he looks up at the person before him. What he had mistaken for cool apathy earlier in his observations reveals itself to be what it really is – carefully concealed anxiety and stress, something unfitting on such a young face.

 

Spider-Man in disguise slowly drags himself to his feet, putting him back onto equal or greater height with the employee. They look up at him somewhat imploringly.

 

Peter feels his heart quiver in place.

 

He rubs the back of his neck with a distractingly clammy, shaky hand as he gives them a pitiful quirk of a smile. “I’m- I’m on my way, over there, to uh,” don’t say ‘the booze aisle’, that makes you sound terrible. He clears his throat lightly. “To the back. So, I can… I’ll… Try to… Do… Uhm…” Something.

 

He gives a little shrug at his trail-off. Honestly, it’s a miracle that he’s even remotely verbal at all right now, given his track record with this... certain person.

 

Their pale brown face lights up. That is to say: they don’t look as horrifically despondent and down trodden as they did a few moments ago.

 

“I... Holy cow this is so unprofessional, but,” they bite at their lip and narrow their eyes as if thinking hard about something. “I just... Don't know what to do, you know? So – thank you. A lot. I hope you can...” They give Deadpool another look just in time to watch him nearly desecrate a hapless banana. “I hope you can do _something.”_

 

Trying to ignore the way the bright lights and odd smell of the store unbalance him, Peter breathes in. “I'll do... my best.” Whatever his best even _is._

 

Peter feels appropriately chastised and guilty for ever even considering not helping this poor person out, steeling himself for whatever may come with only the hyper-sensitivity of his eyes to the bad lighting and the itching at the back of his neck that is croaking screams, wearily attempting to convince him to _run, run and never look back._

 

The employee gives him a little thumbs up as he steps as casually as possible (not at all) out into the starkly unprotected fluorescent perdition of the open aisle. This makes his emotions do a familiarly wholesome back flip despite the fact that he feels like he just stabbed an Iron Man-esque hole in his chest and swirled scalding, caffeinated tea around.

 

He physically has to shiver in disgust at his own mental thought process. This is why he should’ve stayed home. Granted, there are about a billion other, better reasons for him to cite, one of which is standing only about a terrifying meter or so in front of him.

 

If Deadpool has noticed Peter or the employee taking glances and subsequently blatantly approaching him, he hasn’t given any indication of it. Instead, he happily begins whistling and bobbing his head, inspecting another picked yellow and brown banana before shrugging and flippantly tossing it into one of the only un-filled baskets left crowding around his feet.

 

Peter's breath sort of sputters out in his throat at annoying intervals as he tentatively, gingerly attempts to step closer without setting off some kind of bomb – whether literally or figuratively. He may never be even slightly adept at whatever constitutes as 'social attitude', but he sure as heck can be cautious and listen to his instincts.

 

Instincts which are being obtrusively, oppressively, _overwhelmingly_ unhelpful right now.

 

Some part of him floats off and away into a sea of numbed consciousness as he lets his shoed toes hit the edge of the little basket barricade Deadpool has created. A second part, much more awake and calculating, is noting every move and possible weapon and exit that would simultaneously protect his livelihood and his secret identity.

 

The third and final part of him is what's making him sweat so much, embarrassingly so. He likes to call it 'anxiety.'

 

It's a wonder that Deadpool's voice isn't more shocking.

 

“Hel- _lo,”_ the mercenary intones without looking away from his meticulous task of groping the remaining yellow fruits displayed. “Nice of you to _stare.”_

 

Peter breathes in sharply, forcing down the dry urge to cough as he blinks rapidly at some spot other than Deadpool's covered face. Awkward, anxious, anticipatory feelings bloom in his chest and make it hard to focus.

 

Deadpool is wearing very big, worn, and grey sweatpants that is coupled with an equally frumpy red hoodie. For some unexplainable reason, his middle is lumpy and uneven, as if he's stored something on the inside of the thick shirt instead of in its drooping front pocket.

 

“Yea, that's right big eyes; I saw you and Forever 21 over there making conversation about me,” Deadpool continues with despite Peter never having verbally contributed. “I'd ask if you pulled the short straw between you and your baby mall cop compadre – or should I say teenage _blowhard_ – but I honestly don't think I care.”

 

Deadpool's voice is... less, somehow. Like someone melted a dial onto the side of his head, then turned it down from 'HIGH' to 'MEDIUM', or even to 'LOW' if the incredibly disinterested inflection is anything to go by. It's almost enough to convince Peter that this is just another guy, tiredly shuffling his way through a store in the wee hours of the black morning.

 

...Almost.

 

The mercenary in relaxed clothing begins muttering to himself as he turns several bananas attached at the stem over in his hand, deftly yanking the three apart and then bringing it closer to his face. He makes a growling, hissing noise and discards the fruit with zero care into a basket, causing the tense Peter to jump slightly.

 

Deadpool pauses his movements, but only for a barely perceivable moment. _“He's still here...”_ He seems to mumble to himself.

 

Peter shifts in place to try and get rid of the constant feeling of dread his spidey-senses are permeating his mind with. It doesn't really work, and somehow seems to have the exact opposite effect when suddenly something yellow and scented is being shoved in his face.

 

“Does this _wag_ look a little un- _banana_ -ish to you?” Deadpool asks a bit too loudly, making Peter flinch back from more than just the unexpected position of the bright produce. His voice is still on the side of bored, annoyed, or strained, leading Peter to believe that his sudden actions may be an attempted evasion tactic.

 

That or he's hoping to run Peter off and get on with his most likely immoral business, which Peter is quick to admit is working even without the extra effort.

 

Before Peter can seriously ponder Deadpool's choice of words – _wag?_ What does _wag_ mean in this context? – his eyes narrow in suspicion as he visually examines the banana. Unthinkingly, his hands come up to delicately cradle the fruit, barely missing Deadpool's soft noise of confusion.

 

The banana, at first glance, gives Peter's spidey-senses a little shove on the metaphorical shoulder, as if the instinct were also furrowing its brows in intrigue. With further examination, however, something incredibly odd unearths itself in the form of how... square, swollen, and un-curved the fruit is. It has a generally unnatural air about it that unsettles the nerves.

 

“See? _See!?”_ Deadpool says, throwing his arms out to the sides and bearing down on the other person as if finally coming across anticipated gratification. “Isn't it just the funniest obviously not-talked-about phallic shaped fruit you've ever played with? Really pings a high-note on the 'evil-scheme-o-meter', let me tell ya'.”

 

Ignoring the first part of Deadpool's claims, Peter absentmindedly nods in agreeance. It does 'ping' a certain 'evil is afoot' mental notion that one has built up after so many years of being a vigilante turned mostly public hero. Especially with the barely noticeable lumps at the sides, almost as if...

 

Well – to put it as tactile as possible: it sort of reminds Peter of a dancing cartoon banana with four limbs, only the limbs are still... growing.

 

It is incredibly gross and weird.

 

“Ah, man,” Deadpool breathes out like he just got done laughing, putting his gloved hands on his hips and leaning forward as far as possible without tripping over the baskets littering the floor. “I like you now. I didn't think I would, because your snooty 'exact change' buddy is kind of a droll asshole, and you look... like... a stoner...”

 

With a loud curse that has Peter releasing the banana, barely seeing it be caught in Deadpool's hand then disposed of in a basket, the mercenary begins muttering angrily at the ceiling and trying to distance himself from Peter. Only, he doesn't get very far, since he's trapped himself in his own swirl of baskets full of fruit.

 

“Cannot _believe...”_ Deadpool groans angrily, kicking at a couple of baskets. Peter backs up a step, but can't seem to force anymore distance. “Out of all th' people tonight... Had to go and ask the _high one..._ Probably would _eat_ the evil banana... Mutate... _Asshole..._ Banana-man... _Snrrk...”_

 

Peter makes a sound, halting Deadpool's small anger fest. It's a mix between denial and good old indignance, a familiar emotion when around the other person. It gets the casual mercenary to turn back towards him. His face must look like _something,_ because they pause their personal rant for a moment.

 

“If _I_ can't tell if this is real,” Deadpool begins, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “And if _you're_ too _high_ to tell if it's real,” he points at Peter. Peter makes another noise. “And if that emo middle schooler up there is too much of a _corporate ass muncher_ to tell me if it's real,” Peter responds with an uncomfortable sound, this time to do with the crass language. “Then how am I supposed to...” Nonsensical grumbling noises follow.

 

Peter sighs and resists the urge to physically rub circles into his forehead. His headache still hasn't quit, his senses are going haywire (despite nothing happening so far except a questionable conversation), the lights are too bright, the smells are too much, and he's pretty sure he's going to do something dramatic like faint within the next few hours if he doesn't eat something sugary.

 

“ _He's still here, though...”_ Deadpool once again mumbles to himself. With the hole his rampaging kicks created in the basket circle, he steps up much too close to Peter.

 

Eek.

 

Spider-Man in disguise automatically looks up, squints against the horribly bright fluorescent lights, wages a two-second war against his instincts, and then...

 

Honestly, he shouldn't be this surprised.

 

Deadpool is wearing a bright neon pink ball cap with 'Save The Boobies' embroidered on top, only 'Boobies' is crossed out with black marker and replaced with a scrawled 'Pretty.' Underneath that is a pair of gaudy sunglasses that melt into the cap and the black bandanna tied around his lower face. The dark fabric has a faded cartoonish smiley face, but it's off-center, as if the man couldn't be bothered to properly put it on.

 

Peter is only allowed a few scant seconds to process this, in which his wrung-out mind comes up with a hearty _'What?'_ and nothing else.

 

“Listen, ' _bub.'”_ Deadpool stops and giggles. Peter has a sense of climbing dread. “You can't have these bananas. They're _my_ bananas.” He seems to consider something. “Actually – it's because they're evil. And also mine. They're my evil bananas. I'm betting an entire five liters of sriracha in the form of a metaphor for blood loss that these yellow baddies are _actual_ yellow baddies and not just recently annoying capitalist propaganda aimed at children that's about to go horribly wrong.”

 

Floored beyond reason, Peter gives into the physical need to rub his forehead.

 

“Please go get the munchies somewhere else,” Deadpool breathes out and groans, looking like he's one more exasperated line away from stomping his foot. “I am on a very... very important mission from the uh...” He puts his hands up and twiddles his fingers around like he just conducted a baffling magic trick. _“The Avengers._ So, yea – stop getting in my way. I _for realz_ motorboat Captain America's tits on a daily basis. Everybody adores me up there. Especially the Captain. Did I mention his tits yet? Yea, I practically own those. Somebody like you only ever fever dreams that they could have this kind of power.”

 

For some reason – gee, wonder what _that_ could be – Peter very much doubts Deadpool's claim of the 'mission' coming from the Avengers team. One of those reasons being that he fully expects the team to at least attempt to track down Spider-Man before they ever even think of going to Deadpool.

 

Another reason being that the entire second half of _whatever the heck Deadpool just said_ sounds like the biggest basket of bees Peter's ever heard.

 

So, Peter does the 'I'm smart at least twenty hours of the day, but it's the twenty-first hour right now and I'm kind of ready to stop, drop, and die' thing, makes a cutting motion across his chest, opens his eyes as wide as they'll go despite the discomfort, and glares at the mercenary.

 

Deadpool makes a frustrated noise, not unlike the one Peter himself made a few moments before. “Well, if you're _not_ higher than a guy stuck in a plane of negative space, then _what – “_

 

He stops; a healthy pause. Tilts his head to the side.

 

His mumbled 'huh' is the only warning Peter gets before the barely ignored spidey-senses flare to life. With a clanging of unheeded gongs, the descent into mental chaos is a short one.

 

The humanoid arachnid spots a flash of blue – grey? – eyes and inflamed, red skin before Deadpool is deftly shoving the pair of sunglasses onto Peter's face with a little spoken _“boop!”_

 

“Damn, son – you should'a just told me you were buggin' out,” Deadpool snorts, shaking his head from side to side, his entire body following suit in a soft swaying motion. “It's okay – I forgive you. I like you again.”

 

Peter's mouth falls open as the orange-tinted vision of Deadpool nonchalantly turns around, lifts up his hoodie, and unearths something glossy and black. He shakes it out a couple of times until it's double the size and its shape is that of a more recognizable duffle bag.

 

“And you know what, since I like you so much,” a slightly scoffing Deadpool continues despite Peter's flabbergasted stare, “I'm gonna let you help me on my little... covert banana-fantasmical-operation. Sound cool? Just kidding – it's _totes_ cool.”

 

Helpless in the face of such a completely unexpected event that doesn't involve battle, Peter forces himself to take control of his wayward body again, closing his mouth and observing the way Deadpool heedlessly whistles and tosses bananas into the duffle.

 

Though, he has to concede; the sunglasses now perched on his face do block out the irritatingly artificial brightness of the store's lighting. Peter's hand absentmindedly finds it way up to his face, tracing the smooth edge of the dark brown aviators. It's warm from being on someone else's face of a different body temperature.

 

Deadpool unwittingly (or not?) interrupts Peter's anxious pause by standing up straight from plucking bananas from basket-level, grunting and popping his back as he does so.

 

Peter tries not to startle as the other person's eyes look towards him, fails horribly, then becomes confused when, instead of addressing him, Deadpool turns to another shelf and nabs a hand-sized jar of name-brand pickles, giving it a thoughtful look.

 

“You still kosher?” Deadpool asks Peter, lifting the pickles up briefly with a rattling shake, before popping them into his sweatpants pocket. He seemingly forgets all about his apparent thievery seconds later when he loudly nudges a few emptied baskets aside to come stare down at Peter.

 

Peter, of course, feels like the unfair world has just placed him inside of the most violent alligator pen in existence with no weapon except his camera. He could go on and on with so many descriptive, silly and, undeniably fretful metaphors and scenarios, but he feels as if it still wouldn't describe the absolute and unexplainable _panic_ that Deadpool seems to set off in almost every part of his body and mind.

 

What a dangerous conundrum.

 

“You know what? I was wrong. I was so very wrong,” Deadpool says with a sort of heaviness that gives Peter's heart a quiver of warning. “You look even worse with those sunglasses on. Like you're really, really high and really, really trying to hide it from everybody, but now it's just more obvious.”

 

The breath rushes out of Peter's lungs, pushing through his nose as his body sort of deflates. Oh, the anxiety is still there, and his spidey-senses are as loud and garnering of his every attention as ever, but now he feels the need to go take an aspirin or twelve and lay down for a few years.

 

He gives in to the inkling of his physically uncomfortable existence and tries to squeeze at his forehead, only to knock awkwardly against the obscuring sunglasses. He automatically tries to save face by switching gears and running a hand through his hair. He deliberately attempts to ignore the way two days' worth of oil has built up within the somewhat curly brown and heavy fibers.

 

Deadpool gives a little chuckle that seems almost unintentional as his widened eyes observe Peter's every move in a way that can only be described as mildly disturbing. “Aw, don't be like that, my frumpy little sloth friend. I'll _pay you back_ for helping a fellow miscreant-3-AM-shopper. Hell, I'd probably even _pay_ you just for putting up with me for more than five minutes!”

 

The mercenary makes a few ugly laughing sounds that seem to imitate a mishmash of cartoon characters, as if he couldn't decide which one to mimic, as he abandons the open bag of bananas on top of a frozen Peter's feet and goes wandering off.

 

Peter breathes in and out as evenly as possible, his shaded eyes glued to the meandering – yet strangely determined – form of Deadpool as they seemingly browse the aisle ahead, one finger lightly tapping an unheard rhythm on the back of their covered head. Their bandanna slips down off of their left ear, but they either don't notice or don't care that the scarred, pink cartilage is exposed.

 

Before Peter can do so much as swivet and try to run for it, Deadpool let's out an excited _“Nice!”_ , snatching a couple of crackers off of one of those dangling discount hooks at the end of the aisle. He then pivots towards Peter, who stands stagnantly in the middle of the aisle surrounded by empty baskets and trapped by the overloaded duffle, and raises his hand into the air before shouting “Heads up!”

 

Spider-Man in disguise immediately snatches the tossed snacks out of the air with two reluctant hands, not even having to fake a smile or any other social nicety as the cheering Deadpool is already looping around to the next aisle.

 

Still, Peter is hyper-aware of both the noises the wandering mercenary is making through the thin wooden boards and products separating the two and the way his spidey-senses seem to rove, dimming and rolling in order to follow the dangerous person's movements.

 

Fighting down a small bit of surprise nausea that honestly throws him more off balance than he's readily willing to admit, Peter hesitates with his crinkly cargo before dropping it within the still unzipped bag, for a lack of better options to choose.

 

He then severely regrets this decision moments later, even going so far as to physically show his frustration with his idiot self by slapping a palm to his forehead, when he realizes that he just trapped himself even further. Moving his feet would cause a lot of noise, both from the shiny, plastic-like fabric duffle bag and now from the several thin packages of crackers that crackle with even the slightest of movements.

 

He'd had a half-baked plan to skedaddle as soon as Deadpool was properly out of sight, perhaps even nabbing a banana and slapping a dollar on the counter as he went (though none of the price tags seem to be where they should be, here.) But now he'd gone and thwarted his only not-dangerous escape attempt.

 

Really, Peter thinks as he scratches under the sunglasses at the bridge of his nose, listens to the mercenary squawk and nonsensically babble at all of the new products being accosted some shelves over, and steadfastly attempts to ignore the way his spidey-senses make his body shiver and his mind shake; he deserves what's coming, probably.

 

Just as he finds himself wandering off as far as he can into his own head in order to begin cataloging the possible emotional labor and stress of being around Deadpool, the aforementioned mercenary comes gallivanting around the corner, arms laden with... _stuff._

 

Before Peter can step back, Deadpool walks up close enough that he can almost hear whatever the other person is muttering under their breath (“This is what normal people buy, right? _Right!?_ Oh, for fuck's sakes, just _drop it - “_ ) before they unceremoniously drop all of the items into the bag still situated on top of Peter's feet.

 

Next, they shove the pile even further into the already packed bag with one foot, giving Peter a cursory, unconcerned glance even as he unwittingly (or not?) puts pressure on Peter's shoed feet.

 

Peter just pretends to be aptly fascinated with the slightly exposed, definitely scarred collarbone almost poking him in the nose, trying not to breathe in.

 

Suddenly, that collarbone is obscured by a blurred, shadowed (from the tinted glasses,) and red clothed visage as Deadpool deftly bends over and snatches the overloaded bag from the ground, thus releasing Peter's feet from their socially inexcusable trap.

 

...Peter just pretends that the bill of the mercenary's unconventional pink hat didn't brush against his stomach, and that they both have a healthy amount of space between them.

 

“Do me a solid,” Deadpool announces, still much too close to Peter but seemingly (or acting?) preoccupied with making sure nothing will fall out of the bag while it's still unzipped. “Stack all of these baskets and bring them back up front with us. Don't want sir _man-bun_ up there to think I'm the world's worst _everything.”_ He scoffs and turns around, already walking towards the counter, shoving a _package of_ _condoms_ back into the bag while he goes. “I'm only the world's worst at _some_ things, and I'm unusually proud of them all.”

 

...Peter just pretends, for the _third fizzling time,_ that he never saw, hurriedly beginning to stack the dark plastic baskets into one easy to carry pile, making use of that nervous energy that he's been building ever since his mind betrayed him and cartwheeled his body behind a shelf before he _even knew what was going on._

 

Sighing out his frustration in a failed attempt that reminds him of just how _tired_ he is, Peter balances the stack of about six or seven baskets as he mentally maps out the way to the counter from his current position. When that fails due to his exhaustion, he just uses what he is now sarcastically and balefully calling his 'Deadpool-dar' to follow the casually dressed mercenary to their destination.

 

When Peter gets there, it's to the sight of Deadpool leaning over the counter, one foot placed up on top of a stack of newspapers, as he stares down the counter employee. They stare back up, arms folded, with a cross expression.

 

Peter has the inexplicable urge to physically carry that employee to safety. Possibly to an entirely different city.

 

“Hello, squirreler-of-spider,” Deadpool drawls, confusing Peter immensely. “Would you be a dear...” Here, the mercenary coughs an audibly obvious _'piss face!'_ into his elbow before continuing, “and answer a couple of questions of ours about these here... 'farm fresh bananas'?”

 

Peter is just then setting the baskets down in their labeled basket rack when he jumps slightly at the feeling of both civilian and non-civilian ( _threat threat that's a threat_ ) eyes on him. He turns quickly, catching the look of Ultimate Betrayal on the employee's face.

 

Oops.

 

“Are you okay?” The employee asks him directly, pointedly looking past Deadpool's large and obstructive body in order to do so.

 

“Nu-uh,” Deadpool interrupts with. Not that Peter could respond, anyway. “You don't get to talk to him. He's my buddy now, not yours. Recently converted with the power of _Freedom_ and _Liberty_ and all. It's all the _big rage_ these days – especially when I get my _hands_ on them.”

 

Unfortunately, Peter's subconscious finds this to be at least marginally hilarious in some aspect or another, as his traitorous mouth quirks up at the side in full view of both the employee and the glancing mercenary. He jerkily presses a few clammy fingers to his cheek to try and smother it, but the damage is done when he notices the Ultimate Betrayal look bump up a notch or two.

 

...Oops.

 

“So!” Deadpool claps his gloved hands together, somehow loud despite the sound-stifling fabric. “Where'd your store buy these here nanners from? Some big corporation? Shady, underhand dealings with a foreign government out for America's Big Apple whose only existence can be attributed an equally American movie?” There's a pause in which the employee takes the time to roll their eyes. “Sneople? You can tell me if it's snake people, I'll totally believe you, no joke – ”

 

“Look,” the employee says with more than just hints of exasperation and irritation. “All I know is that an unmarked truck comes with bananas, and only bananas. They don't have any stickers or anything that identifies them, but on the wooden crates I have to carry them in with – which, by the way, give horrible splinters – “

 

“Did I ask for your shitty fucking 9-to-7 life story? No, no I did not. Keep dishing, _bromeo,_ before I get... distracted.” Deadpool taps his foot harshly on the trapped newspapers, wrinkling the topmost one so much that it escapes its plastic hold and flutters to the ground. On it is the large, printed letters of 'THE DAILY BUGLE.' Its front page picture is of a fumbling and beaten Spider-Man.

 

Spider-Man in disguise hurriedly looks away.

 

Peter can, unfortunately, smell the way the employee's body begins to increasingly perspire, as if they'd just realized who they were conversing with: a potentially dangerous customer who's caused them grief in the past, and will continue to do so with or without intervention.

 

He shifts nervously and steps a bit closer, accidentally triggering the automatic air freshener. He's pretty sure that's some form of health code violation due to possible allergies, but after experiencing this store's afterthought of a bathroom cleaning, he's not entirely positive that the current management cares.

 

This causes Deadpool to look behind his shoulder, stopping Peter from moving any closer with his focused stare. He appears to re-adjust himself mentally, turning back to the counter and extracting himself from the glossy metal surface with a shoulder roll.

 

“Okay, come on, then,” Deadpool tells them with an impatient wave of one fully clothed arm. “I wasn't joking – I've gotta take a piss and pluck my nose hairs before this morning is ruined and over. Quit wasting my time and I'll quit threatening yours.”

 

The employee swallows, but their generally nervous and sweaty mien loosens somewhat. “As I was saying... All I know is that, printed on the side of those wooden crates is something called 'FU' – “

 

“Excuse me?” Deadpool interrupts with again, although this time there's an excited lilt to his voice. It's still just as harrowing and dangerous according to Peter's spidey-senses. “Well, eff-you too, buddy! _Pfft,_ what does that even _stand_ for – “

 

“ - and it somehow stands for 'Farmer's Unite.'” The employee finishes with a huff, tucking a piece of hair behind their pierced ear. “I don't know. I'm not even allowed to handle the bananas – “

 

“I bet you're not,” Deadpool mumbles, seemingly barely attempting to stifle his mocking giggles. He even takes a quick glance over his shoulder at Peter, to which Peter pretends to rub at his reluctantly smiling mouth to avoid eye contact.

 

Don't get him wrong – Peter feels fully obligated to keep Deadpool from flying off the rails or anything equally dangerous and undeniably scary. He just also happens to feel somewhat unwillingly tickled by this whole... performance. He's trying not to give himself any ideas about it. Not that his spidey-senses will let him, anyway, as they're currently having a fairly violent circus inside of his body.

 

“ - I'm not allowed to handle the merchandise...” Another professional ignoring of the man's laughter, “...except when unloading. Only my manager is allowed to touch the fruits and set them on display...”

 

The employee goes on to mutter about a 'lazy asshole', though by now Peter's mind is rapidly and intricately sorting through what he's just heard.

 

“Really? A random, unmarked truck attached to a fucking backwater farmer's market that has the gall to call itself 'Farmer's Unite', yet sells its weirdly shaped fruit in the big city like some kind of betrayal of the spiritual, bloody, cosmic-economic kind?” Deadpool scoffs. _“Nnnnot_ buying it – “

 

Deadpool cuts off with a confused noise as a wholly distracted Peter sidles his way up towards the counter, focused solely on the contents of the bag. Nudging a few miscellaneous products aside, he gently lifts a banana out of its temporary home.

 

He squints terribly as he lifts up the sunglasses on his face, securing the thin plastic behind his ears and within the tangles of his hair as he visually examines the yellow object once more. His tongue tries to shove itself out of his mouth in an annoying expression, so he bites down on it and purses his lips instead.

 

This particular banana is especially... well, he might as well call it like it is: _mutated._ Even so, his absolutely knackered being begs him to call it a day and mistake it for a one in a hundred chance two-in-one banana, though it looks nothing like it, even to the most disillusioned of individuals.

 

The weirdest part is the four, nodule-like bumps on its sides. It gives the distinct impression, once again, of limbs, in a sort of unsettling and instinctively wrong way that has his spidey-senses buzzing in objecting deference to the close proximity of Deadpool.

 

Peter makes a humming noise, unheedful of everything but his own ringing senses, which he stubbornly pushes past. He fingers the banana's brown, crusty top. If only he could open it and get a better look...

 

“If you open that, you'll have to buy it,” the watching employee interrupts and informs, halting Peter's nearly mindless progress. Then, “...What do you see? Is it really... 'evil'?”

 

Peter's eyebrows try to crawl off of his forehead as he awkwardly shuffles backwards. The trance has been broken.

 

Uh-oh. He knows this skit. It's the one where he slowly lets the social significance of conversation die an agonizing death in the wake of his own involuntary non-verbalism. The question directed at him will peter out in the air as Peter himself stares at the floor with building trepidation.

 

He'll be lucky if this ends with a stifling silence instead of the occasionally aggressive response.

 

Thankfully, Deadpool – wow, what a concept – makes his growing peevery known, thus saving Peter from further interaction.

 

Unfortunately, he does it by batting the banana from Peter's hand, causing the nervous vigilante in civvies to hastily pull away.

 

“Hey, now; we just had this conversation,” Deadpool says huffily as he deposits the banana back into its black fabric coffin. “These are _my_ evil fruit. All of them. Every single one.” He swats his limp hands at Peter as if shooing away a fly. “You can have the _other_ stuff I'm getting, but only when we're done here – “

 

“Um,” the employee pipes up. “I don't think I can- you can't buy _all_ of those bananas.”

 

Deadpool slaps his hand on the counter. “Why the hell not!? I've got literal, cold, hard cash and an angry disposition, here!”

 

The employee flounders. Peter's spidey-senses take the time to remind him that _hey,_ _they exist,_ and this is starting to look _pretty bad._ “I- I just can't! You can't just- just take our entire stock of bananas! We just got those!”

 

“Just, just, just – “ Deadpool mocks, shaking his head. “Listen, bearded baby-face – “

 

“Hey – !”

 

“These bananas are literally evil. I'm offering, like the kindhearted Samaritan that _I obviously am,_ to take them off of your uninformed, boutique lotion soft civilian hands.” Deadpool breathes in and out before leaning over the counter, his previously light voice taking on a dark tone. _“So what's it gonna be?”_

 

Spidey-senses trawling every possible depth and corner of his mind, Peter takes a few slow, calculated, utterly panicked steps towards the weighted glass door to his left. Hasty plans breed in his mind like scattering tadpoles in the wake of a child's encroaching hand.

 

He would make a break for it, to the alley a few yards and a right turn down the road. He'd change into his costume, call the police, and be back in time to web Deadpool blind to the nearest solid surface before making like a banana and splitting –

 

Peter's retreating body triggers the automatic air freshener. He leaps about a mile high as all of his nerves burst at once.

 

And then there's a gun.

 

The employee emits a choked off scream. Peter accomplishes a weak sound that gets caught in his throat. The only noise Deadpool makes comes from their gun as they turn the safety off.

 

“You _really_ should have just told me where you're hiding him,” Deadpool nonchalantly informs the cowering employee, multitasking as he roots through the bag, pulls out the box of condoms and a packet of gummies, shoves them both into his deep pocket, zips the bag a third of the way shut with one hand, then points the gun at the ceiling and fires a booming shot that dislodges the cheap foam tiles.

 

Before Peter can so much as desperately fling a round of webbing, the entire, nearly _sixty_ _pound_ (wow that's a lot more than he was expecting) bag full of bananas and other such items collides with his chest, sending him on a crash course with the door he'd smartly (now foolishly) placed directly at his back.

 

He stumbles backwards out onto the street, but easily manages to keep his balance even as Deadpool comes flying out after him. He's barely given a thought or a choice before he's running, only narrowly managing to outpace the person chasing him with the weighted bag awkwardly held in his shaking arms.

 

“Run, _run_ you gloriously convenient little tool!” The excited mercenary bellows, Peter's traitorous feet doing just that, though the action is more akin to attempting to run away from Deadpool than with them as the two fly down the sidewalk, shoes slapping loudly. “Just- just _keep running!_ I'll find you on the ground later, so don't go home unless you want _me to know where you shit at night!”_

 

With that harrowing threat, Deadpool splits from their gallop down the dark and empty street in order to peal down a different one, leaving Peter to continue his own panic-fueled run, blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding, everything being much too loud and overwhelming and, and –

 

And Deadpool just made him _steal_ _fifty pounds worth of bananas!_

 

Skidding to a stop in an alley, quite a few blocks from both his own apartment and the shop he just _criminally vacated,_ Peter harshly drops the bag to the dirty ground, his body following suit seconds later as he lands on his knees with a grutal noise punctuated by harsh breathing.

 

Thankfully, a single thing goes right tonight in the form of his retreating spidey-senses, allowing his body to loosen up to a certain extent and his mind to clear. Deadpool is somehow going out of range. It is an incredibly odd feeling to experience.

 

With haste born of the last hour's panic and turmoil, he forces his brain to work overtime, as he intimately recognizes the perilous situation that he now finds himself in.

 

If the mercenary's parting threat was to be believed, then that means that Deadpool is going to track him down soon... Meaning that Peter had better get out of dodge, and fast, before the other person could get any possible leads on his tracks, his home, and worst of all, his identity.

 

Sirens begin to wail in the near distance as Peter picks his trembling body off of the ground, mentally cursing his situation even as the autopilot movements of unveiling his hidden suit wash over him, starting with untaping his gloves from their secret position at the wrist and slipping them on, latching his webshooters into place.

 

He's just going to have to live with the fact that he'll never be able to go to that store again. And, most worryingly, that Deadpool may or may not be able to spot his face in a crowd. He needs to lay low now more than ever – going anywhere but work and home is a risk he won't be able to take for a while. Maybe even until Deadpool leaves New York for somewhere else, as they are apparently prone to doing.

 

Peter distantly wonders why Deadpool split from him at all – then he notices the audibly erratic movement of the gaining police, provided by years of observing the patterns and behaviors of the NYPD. Maybe Deadpool was out there right now, doing something chaotic and eye-catching in order to distract the police dispatched, most likely from the employee calling them as soon as the gun was no longer present in their store.

 

He has to squash down any feelings of moral obligation to immediately go off an stop Deadpool from whatever shenanigans they may be getting up to. He has to take care of himself first this time – just this once.

 

Peter steadfastly ignores the voice in his head telling him that he's just avoiding having to interact with Deadpool for any longer than necessary. He likes to think himself less shallow ( _afraid_ ) than that.

 

For a lack of better options, and that same rational voice in his head telling him not to leave any evidence behind, Peter shoves his shed clothes with the stolen – _stolen!_ – items in the duffle bag and zips it fully closed.

 

He doesn't waste anymore time on the ground, webbing away to one of the highest buildings he can spot in this area before making his way home, avoiding any sort of scene that may require police intervention. He can't risk running into Deadpool – not with this telling duffle bag.

 

When Peter makes it back to his apartment, silently slithering his way in through the only window with a little trick he likes to call 'living on the top floor and having no desire to lock himself out', he finds himself standing stiffly in the middle of the room for a few moments, floating within his mind and yet still heavily aware of his own body. His own tired, tired body.

 

Eventually, Peter musters up enough energy and control to get moving. He decides to bring the duffle bag to the only table in his small home – a knee-height coffee table that serves as a both a desk and a place to eat – and unzips it to view its contents.

 

First, he sifts through everything that isn't a banana. This task is somewhat easy, as most of the bananas are lining the bottom of the bag and are out of the way, sans the singular fruit that Peter had taken out at the counter.

 

His mind, still somewhat on a dissociative autopilot that can only spare the barest of energy, none of which is going towards anything even remotely resembling emotions, begins sorting the items into piles. First is the food pile, next is the non-food pile, third is the... weird pile, to which he barely glances at and gives a mental 'I'll worry about it tomorrow' sticker.

 

Thankfully, Deadpool took out the condoms. Peter doesn't know what he would do if he ended up with them.

 

...Actually, never mind – he'd make balloons with them. And then hope that his aunt May didn't decide to drop in for a visit before he'd managed to pop them all in disgrace.

 

Shaking his head to get rid of his wandering thoughts, Peter purposefully re-zips the duffle bag without touching or expressly looking at the bananas. That's a can of worms to lie in another time. Specifically: a time where he can actually rationalize and think of a plan.

 

As his body wavers in its crouch in front of the covered table, he deeply recognizes that this is not one of those times.

 

Peter shoves all of the food into a bare spot in his kitchen – so small and cornered, it acts like an afterthought – despite the fact that he could probably use a bag of those crackers right about now. Nothing needs to be refrigerated, though, so he can keep a watchful eye on everything pertaining to the whole _illegal escapade._

 

Having _stolen food_ go unchecked in his living space would make him twitch more than usual.

 

Once again, he finds himself stagnating in the middle of the room. Some part of him is vehemently against relaxation; to begin his undressing routine that involves shedding Spider-Man and settling back into Peter Parker. It may have been almost nine years since he took up the vigilante mantle, but he still thinks of his mask as a separate persona. It's a system that works fairly well in protecting both his mind and his body.

 

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he's about to set off an alarm at any sudden move, Peter begins to peel off his gloves. Then his webshooters; those go on the bedside table, right next to the warm bowl of milk he keeps forgetting to put away. Then his shoes, his shirt, his pants, his –

 

His mask catches on something that goes tumbling to the floor, landing with a clattering noise that is echoed by a sound unwittingly fleeing his throat with surprise.

 

Deadpool's sunglasses stare accusingly up at him.

 

Oh, great. Not only has he become a grocery store robber, he's also become a personal item thief. Peter rubs a hand through his hair, feeling the indentations in his scalp. Pressing into them smarts slightly.

 

How had he not felt the glasses pressing into his head under the mask? He must've been an odd sight, what with his normally rounded face distorted, yielding to the hard shape of the sunglasses. That is, he would have been, had anyone seen him at all.

 

Peter shivers as he bends over to pick them up. Just looking at them is giving him some very unwanted heebie-jeebies. Like the memory of today, he wants to bury them somewhere dark and forget all about them and what they stand for. Or, more like, _who_ they stand for.

 

His first thought is to bury them in his underwear drawer. That's where physical secrets go to die in movies, right? It makes him think more of a highschooler's experience than a fully grown college student's, actually...

 

Partway through moving aside a pair of bright green underpants – for Dr. Banner, obviously – Peter halts in his task with a sigh full of consternation. There's just something about putting _Deadpool's_ eye ware in his private drawer that makes this situation... feel really weird.

 

So, he switches gears, fruitlessly ignores that thought process, and tries to shove the glasses in his sock drawer.

 

He runs into a similar problem when he happens to look down at his bare feet, wiggle his toes, and have very distinct thoughts about just what... _kind_ of person Deadpool is.

 

Feeling irrevocably tainted, he once again re-adjusts his plan.

 

The sunglasses eventually find themselves spending their night in the loneliness of the nearly empty cabinet under the perpetually dripping kitchen sink.

 

Peter, on the other hand, makes sure that his window is covered, shoves his mostly clean suit off of the bed that really needs a sheet change, and checks his alarm clock. Then he tiredly – yet not without the constant rolling of anxiety – settles down to hopefully sleep for the two hours he has left before he needs to get up for work.

 

His whole left leg jerks from its curled position as the familiar spike of his spidey-senses alerts him to Deadpool's somewhat close presence.

 

...Somehow, he has the feeling that he's not going to be very well rested by the time he encounters the next roadblock of the Deadpool kind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an overreaching plot that involves evil farmers, bananas, and genetic experimentation. Riveting, I know.
> 
> I had a lot of fun painting a physical picture of the counter employee through mostly Deadpool's unreliable and biased descriptions in the form of derogatory name-calling. Peter even somewhat falls for it when he starts seeing the employee as accusing instead of imploring. Whoops.
> 
> Wade doesn't know that this is Spider-Man here, so any sort of proximity/personal bubble breach or social breach he did wasn't flirting or anything. It's just how Wade deals with non-verbal people who look like shit and apparently won't leave him alone but aren't doing any harm, so what the hey. Might as well drag them into whatever shenanigans he's chocked up and hope they fucking leave already.
> 
> p.s. This goes unsaid (as in no one's going to verbally address this, but it still exists), but as it stands:  
> Peter is 24, biromantic asexual non-binary (he/him pronouns.)  
> Wade is 37, panromantic/sexual demi-guy (he/them pronouns.)
> 
> p.p.s. Yes - I did do the math to weigh the duffle bag. I made them steal 18 branches of bananas, which equals about 6~7 bananas per branch. Each banana weighs about 0.5 lbs. That's ~3.5 lbs per branch. Thus; 58~63 lbs overall, not to mention whatever else Deadpool threw in there and Peter's clothes. That's one stuffed duffle!


	4. four thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Breakdowns, tense and awkward situations, kidnapping, mentions of physical/domestic abuse, transphobia

 

Not dragging his feet and simultaneously keeping his eyes open is proving to be a trying task.

 

Peter’s foot hits the side of someone else’s and he barely mumbles something that may be an apology, may just be a slur of groans.

 

He retracts his initial thought. This is an _impossible_ task. His body feels like an empty birdcage, shuffling along on two equally bereft-of-life wooden sticks for legs.

 

The early, _so early,_ morning in which he went shopping was, undeniably, a dud in all accounts. Not only did he not get the wine that he was planning on presenting to his aunt, but now he also has an entire small store full of uneatable, strange bananas stuffed into his tiny apartment. He, predictably, hasn’t even the first idea as to what to do with them.

 

Even further – he was kept up within the measly two-hour time frame given in order to sleep before work by sheer proximity to _Deadpool._ It was as if his spidey-senses would. Not. Turn. Off. They just _had_ to follow the mercenary's movements no matter what. He was even startled awake by the harrowing thought that Deadpool must’ve been sweeping the town for a wayward Peter Parker, duffle bag of loot in tow.

 

Stifling a yawn as he waves to the secretary on the first floor and hopping into the empty elevator, Peter wonders if he's cursed. Cursed to be Deadpool's unwillingly rotating tornado alarm forever.

 

He stares at his warped reflection in the dirty chrome elevator door. He contemplates what to do with his amass of ‘samples.’ If he had access to a lab ( _Banner,_ his mind tempts him. He shoves that flimsy reasoning off. He’s not willing to risk his identity for a chance at accurate readings or a meeting with a prestigious doctor; he’s not _entirely_ flaky, _thankyouverymuch_ ) then he could perhaps find out why these particular bananas were perceived as ‘evil’ to both himself and a somewhat untrustworthy mercenary.

 

When the elevator _ding_ s at the proper floor arrival, Peter nearly jumps out of his skin. He can’t force himself to move forward until the doors are threatening to shut on him, so he awkwardly squeezes through and hopes that no one was avidly watching the lift for his appearance, as secretaries are often instructed to do when he doesn’t show up on time (often.)

 

Unfortunately, luck is not on his side. When is it ever.

 

“Peter Parker.” Chloe, a tall woman with the whitest shade of natural blond that Peter has ever seen, comes _tap-tap_ ping up to him. She must’ve been told to hover by the doorway. Drat. “Mr. Jameson needs to see you in his office, _immediately.”_

 

Oh, Peter thinks. It’s going to be one of _those_ days, isn’t it.

 

He’s practically reaching a hellish Nirvana with every heavy blink of sleep-crusted eyes, and yet he’s going to have to let himself be subjected to anywhere from ten minutes to an entire hour’s worth of yelling from Jameson.

 

Nevertheless… Peter fights his way through his body’s general unease and gives Chloe the approximation of a tight, polite smile. “Of course, on my way,” he tells her with a crackling voice. She gives him a look that he can’t quite decipher in this state and trails after him. He pays her no mind, assuming that her desk must be in the same direction.

 

His autopilot is on the fritz, so he actually has no idea where he’s going despite having worked here since he was sixteen. Instead, he just follows the sound of Mr. Jameson’s not-quite-at-a-yell voice, ending up at a familiar closed-off space near the back of the open area office floor.

 

“And another thing – !” Jameson’s voice sounds from the ajar door.

 

“Mr. Parker will be right with you, sir,” Layla, a slim Arabic woman with perfectly bobbed black hair, assuages the fuming boss with a crinkly-eyed smile and patience that Peter will forever admire. She pulls the thick wooden door (unanimously deemed necessary) to and switches her gaze over to Peter. “He’s ready for you.”

 

“Oh, I bet he is…” Peter attempts to joke, only it falls flat. Just like his voice.

 

Rubbing the back of his head, which hangs low in a (failed) effort to avoid the fluorescent lighting and natural, hot sunlight filtering in through the windows, he awkwardly walks himself to the brown door. Some part of his logical brain stutters, as instead of knocking like he usually does, he just sort of folds his way into the room with a soft “hi.”

 

Jameson stares at him a bit oddly. Peter feels quite oddly in response.

 

“Oh,” Peter says, flatly. He can’t tell if his face is showing an emotion or not. “Sorry, sir. You wanted to see me?”

 

Jameson still has a look that makes Peter kind of sweaty, but it eventually is replaced with his usual expression of hardened contempt as he taps the side of his outdated cigar on the side of the table. Its ashes flutter onto an older newspaper on the floor.

 

It’s another photo of Spider-Man getting absolutely destroyed in a battle with the Rhino. Spider-Man in disguise looks away.

 

“Parker!” Jameson barks.

 

“Yes, sir –“

 

“As I was just informing your _colleague…”_ Jameson leans forward and gives Peter a look full of Non-Computing Social Cue.

 

Peter blinks once, lost. “…Layla?”

 

Jameson slams the table once, “Dammit, Parker – this isn’t kindergarten! There’s no cutesy ‘hi’s in my office, you end every statement to me with a ‘sir’, and- and- go find out your colleague’s last names, professionally!”

 

“Yes, sir –“ Peter backs out of the room, opening the door and –

 

“Obviously not right now, dammit!” Jameson yells with more than a hint of exasperation. “Get back in here, I’m not done with you yet!”

 

“Yes, sir,” Peter repeats, nearly tripping his way back into the room. His hand won’t let go of the door – literally. He’s stuck himself to the door. Oh, boy.

 

“Get over here, Parker!” Jameson’s turning a shade of red and Peter’s turning a shade of white.

 

“Yes, sir,” Peter says, even as he forces himself to pretend to lift his leg and fiddle with his shoe in order to avoid ripping the door from its hinges. “Ah… One moment, sir –“

_“Parker!”_

 

“Sorry, sir,” Peter gets out.  His organs are all having a violent circus inside of him again, and it’s getting sort of hard not to tunnel his vision. “Just a mome –“

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing!?”

 

“I –“ Aw, fudge it. Peter has to pretend that his shoe _accidentally_ falls from his foot and to the floor, lest he be accused of playacting (which he is, but his boss doesn’t need to know that). “Whoops.”

 

Jameson makes an incomprehensible noise of rage.

 

Finally _, finally,_ Peter’s hand unsticks itself from the door, allowing him to fall forward (and expertly into his shoe once again, not that Jameson would ever appreciate such nervous finesse) and stumble his way into standing in front of the large wooden desk once more.

 

“Yes, sir, what is it that you needed?” Peter says in his best ‘I am completely calm and rational’ voice, which, coincidentally, he only uses when he is anything but.

 

“Parker!” Jameson bellows for nearly the fifth time in one conversation. Peter, as he usually does, absently wonders if anyone outside of the office can hear it. Wonders what sort of perception this unwilling audience may have of the mysteriously bad employee named ‘Parker.’ “Your pictures last time were atrocious!”

 

“Oh,” Peter voices softly, shifting in place and ferociously fighting against both the instant need to cry and the niggling worry to reaffirm that he was still getting paid, though, right? “Why- why is that, sir –“

 

“Too many heroic shots!” Jameson shoots back, throwing his arms into the air as he stands, the sound of his chair hitting the glass wall behind him sending spasms of (unwarranted) fear down Peter’s back. “Too much grandeur! Not enough imminent, undeniable _failure!”_

Peter belatedly notices that he’s doing some pretty sad jazz hands, and purposefully folds his arms down to his sides. “B-but sir; Spider-Man’s –“

 

 _“Menace,”_ Jameson interrupts with a growl. The pencil in his hand snaps in half.

 

Yikes.

 

“Spider-Man’s last fight was… _not,_ a failure,” Peter mumbles, head unwittingly ducking down at the admission. “He- they hardly ever fumbled, and –“

 

“So what!?” Jameson throws his hands up again, as if all was glaringly obvious. Maybe it was. “I don’t pay you to make the _bad_ guys look _good,_ Parker. I pay you to give me _debate,_ give me _perspective_ , give me _conflict!”_

 

When Jameson slams a fist down onto his (admittedly sturdy) desk once more, Peter jumps a little bit this time.

 

Uh-oh, Peter’s rational mind (which only hangs on by a thread of determination and the threat of a meltdown) thinks. His breathing begins to stutter and something prickles behind his eyes.

 

Uh-oh, indeed.

 

“And you!” Jameson points abrasively at the young man standing meekly in his office, as if he hadn’t been yelling at the same person the whole time. “What the hell was that mess last time!?”

 

Peter fights not to sniffle. That’s embarrassing (and unprofessional). “S-sir?”

 

“What in the world compelled you to get so close to the fight in this one!?” Jameson suddenly tosses a familiar sheath of photos onto the table. Most of them were nearly ruined by Venom’s black aura and viscous fluid. “You could’ve been killed, you blubbering idiot! And _then_ who would I get to photograph Spider- _Who-Za-What-Zit!?_ Everybody else _sucks!”_

Peter flaps his mouth uselessly for a few moments. Dare he think that that was a hint of… _concern,_ from Jameson? Better not risk it. “I- I- You told me to, um, get ‘as close as possible’, sir…” And did he ever. He’s still aching from _that_ wild symbiote encounter.

 

“All of these shots are useless, anyways,” Jameson grumbles, “I didn’t ask for a digital petting zoo, Parker, I asked for ‘dynamic angles!” He abruptly seems to gain his frustrated fervor back, raising one handful of photos high into the air…

 

“When stupid teenagers like you take over this company, it’ll all fall through the cracks!”

 

Jameson seems to be griping mostly to himself, slamming the photos down onto the table as he gazes bitterly to one side. A few of the photos slide harmlessly to the floor.

 

Instead of having the natural, scripted response at the ready (somewhere along the lines of “I haven’t been a teenager for nearly five years now, sir”), something inside of Peter seems to break off, switch, and then click back into place seamlessly.

 

And then he proceeds to do what he has never done ( _begged_ himself to never do) at work before.

 

He bursts into tears.

 

Jameson immediately stops all movement and sound, staring at Peter with wide, surprised eyes as the other person seems to curl into themselves, oversized sleeves of their (previously comforting) sweater being used as fabric tear-catchers.

 

“Uh…” Jameson gets out intelligently, stumped.

 

The door bursts open. Two avenging angels swoop in, one accosting Jameson as the other folds themselves protectively around Peter.

 

“John Jonah Jameson!” One angel – the blonde one – the one named Chloe – scolds their boss quite loudly, and publicly, as the door is still open for the whole office to see and hear. “We just _knew_ that you would break him someday!”

 

Jameson scratches the back of his head, looking appropriately contrite as his eyes flick between Chloe and Peter. “I- I- Well, he’s never- For God’s sakes, he’s never _cried_ before!”

 

“That _you_ know of!” Chloe briskly retorts, folding her arms and stepping smoothly between Peter and Jameson. “Honestly – you call yourself a ‘fair leader’, and yet why does the entire office feel the need to hover outside your door whenever Peter is forced to come in here –“

 

“I don’t _force_ him to do anything –“

 

 _“Forced!”_ Chloe stresses. “Forced to endure your abuse – just like he has done for the past eight years! Have you no _shame,_ Mr. Jameson?”

 

Peter, meanwhile, is barely able to pay attention to the verbal dressing down of his boss. Instead, he’s focusing on the long, thick arms winding around his quivering, weakly standing frame.

 

“Shh, Peter, it’s okay,” the second angel – the darker, sweeter one – Layla – hums into his ear as she slowly, softly pulls him back through the open door. “It’s over, you’re alright. He won’t shout at you anymore. I’m taking you somewhere safe, okay?”

 

‘Blubbering idiot’, Peter’s mind unhelpfully supplies for him as he continues to hold fast to his face. His burning, uncontrollably leaking face.

 

If his inability earlier to travel the office with any modicum of foresight seemed bad before, now it is nearly unbearable. Each hallway twists off into the unknown, every desk looks the same, and he can’t seem to wrap his fuzzy, stifling head around the concept of a memorized floor plan.

 

Where’s the door? No – where’s the elevator that will lead him _to_ the door? Where are the bathrooms again? Does he even remember how he got to Jameson’s office in the first place?

 

What _floor_ is he on?

 

He’s trying his best to hold in his sobs as he’s blindly led somewhere ‘safe’, as Layla continues to quietly assure him, but he simply cannot seem to get a hold on his body. It’s shivering, shaking, rattling in ways that utterly distract him from _calming the heck down._ It threatens to leave him crouched on the floor, slowly rolling himself into his own personal version of a black hole until he, blessedly, won’t be able to feel himself break down any further.

 

…but he isn’t allowed to have such a reprieve.

 

“Here we are,” Layla tells him, using one hand to push open a door. She has the most amazing foresight so as to leave the godawful fluorescent lights off.

 

‘Thank you,’ Peter’s (barely there, now) rational mind urges him to say. His body makes him choose option B, which is ‘collapse onto the floor like a jerk and make weird noises.’

 

Layla, in her heels and uncomfortable looking pencil-skirt suit, doesn’t hesitate in sitting onto the floor next to him.

 

Peter’s never really been religious or believing in a higher order, but right now he truly finds himself in the presence of an angel.

 

Before his distant – now closer than ever, he supposes – coworker can open her mouth and say anything even remotely similar to what Chloe was shouting at a stunned Jameson not but five minutes ago, Peter unburies his face from where his knees are scrunched up towards his chest and flaps one hand worriedly.

 

“It- it wasn’t, wasn’t Mr. Jameson’s fault,” Peter gets out. His breathing is wonky, no doubt, but he’s pretty sure she can understand him with how her eyes go wide with disbelief. “I- I- It’s been a bad week. He- he didn’t scare me, or anything…”

 

And what he’s saying is true. It _has_ been a bad week – an absolutely awful, dreadful week that he hopes will not continue past this isolated incident. Then he’d _really_ break down, and he doesn’t know what to do about it if _that_ happens.

 

“Y-you don’t have to do- to do this,” Peter tells her, clammy hands coming up to grip the tops of his bent legs. The legs that still sort of haunt his self-esteem with just how long and lank they are. “I-I’m fine. It’s fine.”

 

Layla gives him such a dubious look that he suddenly doubts his abilities to lie to older women once again (thanks, aunt May) as she pulls a small package of wipes out of her abysmally small – yet stylish – hand bag that he is just now noticing.

 

Magical. He would never have thought to be so prepared.

 

“Okay, Peter,” Layla says as she hands him a wipe. He uses it on his face, which routinely appalls him with just how wet and snotty it can get when he isn’t 100% aware of himself. “Care to share with me why this week has been so bad, if it wasn’t just Jameson that… set you off?”

 

With a tiny side-look at the ‘just Jameson’ part, Peter sighs heavily and looks around the dark office for a bit to ground himself slightly. On the desk, he can barely make out a golden sheen plaque that says ‘Mr. Swenski’ on it. He belatedly remembers that the lively editor is on maternity leave for at least a few more weeks.

 

…And then he begins to actually, albeit tiredly, process why he’s so wound up, and his breathing catches in his throat.

 

“Peter?” Layla asks worriedly, having noticed her coworker’s sudden stillness and lack of breaths. “Are you having another attack? What do you need?”

 

Peter valiantly wrinkles his red nose in an attempt to not give in again. Except it fails spectacularly when all he can do is bury his face into his sweater sleeves once more and sob breathlessly as he tries his best to shove his entire being in between his knees.

 

He is so very tired.

 

 _“What am I gonna do with all the evil bananas in my kitchen!?”_ Peter whispers heatedly into his irreparably ruined sleeves, shaking and shivering once again in his raw skin.

 

Layla, wisely, says nothing, and begins to rub at the younger person’s back with soothing circles that are half wonderful, half overwhelming.

 

Peter wishes nothing more than to have the ability to cartwheel away from _this_ mess.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Spider-Man’s Thursday night starts like this:

 

“Yo, Benny!” He calls jovially into the pay-phone in his hand, the other trying to gently finger curl the wire attaching it to the bulky device. “I’ve got two mooks all nice and trussed up in my very own webs for you here. So what say you bring the cavalry down to come and pick ‘em up?”

 

True to his statement, two ‘mooks’ swing idly in the beginnings of an alley, barely illuminated by one of the only working streetlamps on this side of the Bronx. One is passed out, their feet dangling limply and their black ski mask hiding most of their peacefully sleeping (haha – weren’t like _that_ a minute ago) face. The other is swinging back and forth and apparently having a pretty fun time with it, despite the impending doom of being arrested.

 

Benny on the other line is, but of course, always the charmer. “Go to hell.”

 

“Aw, Benny!” Peter chuckles into the phone. “Don’t be like that – I know you know how to figure out which payphone I’m holed up in. Hey, you know what,” the human arachnid offers, faux-saccharine sweet, “I’ll even sit still for five entire minutes. And talk to _you!_ Just to make it easier for ya’. How’s about it, Benny ole’ buddy ole’ pal?”

 

“If you know what’s best for you, you’d stay still for a lot longer than that.”

 

“You know, I think I’ve seen these guys before,” Spider-Man continues casually as if he wasn’t just given what could be considered a _death threat._ “Same game, same area, same lame excuses, a couple of years ago I think? Because they’ve gotten a _lot_ smarter – didn’t even carry cellphones for me to use this time. ‘Cept they picked a _real dirty spot_ with a _real dirty payphone_ – _eugh,_ is that pee? Oh, New York… So, jokes on them! I still catted.”

 

“You better watch your back, Spider,” Benny tells him grievously as the sounds of sirens start up somewhere close. “One day, we’ll get you too. You’ll get yours, you freak.”

 

“Mhm, you take care now. Buh-bye!” Peter says into the phone with as much affection as he can scrounge up at the moment. Surprisingly, it’s quite a lot. He knows that Benny is closer to retirement with his veteran husband than the old man wants to admit.

 

“Better luck next time, you two,” Peter tells the two ex-criminals, soon to be re-introduced into the system, as he walks past the alley. The only conscious one nods in time with their swinging. “Don’t swing too hard and hit your head, now. I _will_ come up there and web you swingless.”

 

They stop swinging so erratically.

 

Peter laughs under his breath and travels upwards, the wind slowly picking up and the sounds amplifying the higher he goes. He’s not swinging just yet; it’s more like he’s hopping from building to building like a particularly ambitious spider monkey.

 

He doesn’t get very far with this method before his senses are tingling. It’s a mix of weird and routine – something _wrong_ is obviously happening, but it’s also tinted with a bit of…

 

Eau d’ _Deadpool._

 

Throwing his head back and groaning out loud (if he had long hair, this would be a pretty picture perfect shot right here) which gets caught in the wind and blown away before it can be heard by anyone but himself.

 

Nevertheless, Spider-Man is not one to ignore a call of distress, no matter what it may be. The wallcrawler stops crawling walls and starts web slinging, using his spidey-senses as his only guide. It is _very_ hard to see properly from so high up, especially in the dark like this. Everybody looks like scurrying ants, and don’t even get him _started_ on how annoying those bright advertisements become.

 

It’s when his senses inevitably lead him to the Bronx’s red-light district does he hesitate, but only for a moment. He’s used to being led to some of the seediest places in New York by his powers, but this is probably number one on that list. He admits to not having the stomach for it some night.

 

With a mind that may be overly cautious (yet not enough to stop its host), Peter swings his way down to a sturdy-looking building, to which he lands on the roof of. He might’ve just scared a squatter away, might’ve startled a mutated rat or something, but his senses are pointing more so deeper into the district than at what is lurking in the shadows.

 

Stealthily, the web-slinger abandons his webs and begins wall crawling, dodging areas of intense light or streets full of people in order to follow his senses more accurately.

 

Soon, however, that danger sense fizzles out into something nearly unreachable. It is replaced, worryingly, by only a familiar buzzing that seems to encompass his entire body.

 

Deadpool is dangerously near.

 

Mentally cursing himself – what if this is a trap? And why did he expect anything other than Deadpool’s shenanigans? He really got his hopes up for a mercenary-less night for no good reason – Peter forces himself to slowly pinpoint just exactly where the aforementioned target is.

 

He ends up near the edges of the district, where quite a few dusty, broken buildings sit in various states of disrepair. Once again, he doesn’t know what he expected.

 

On top of a particularly derelict two-story building that has a positively joyous colony of dancing raccoons at its doorstep, sits a similarly red-suited man. He kicks his legs back and forth and softly sings some sort of catchy song to himself, apparently unaware of the resident spider creeping up on him.

 

Enveloped in these strange, distracting feelings of _fear,_ Peter wastes a few minutes simply crouching in the darkness at the side of a nearby building and staring. Like waiting at the edge of a room full of people you don’t know, not fully ready to commit to something like walking in and possibly making a mistake. Only ten times worse, the mistake being _possible death_ (panic attack free of charge) instead of just public embarrassment.

 

Once again, he wonders why his spidey-senses scream at him at all around this person. Anyone could tell that Deadpool is dangerous simply from the way he holds himself… or maybe it’s the blatant weaponry strapped to every possible surface of his body that does it.

 

Either way… Peter is nothing if he isn’t a spiderling of true science. And he yearns to test the possible theories currently bouncing around in his brain, no matter how dangerous their learning process may prove to be.

 

Newly reaffirmed, Peter makes his way closer until he can shoot a single line of thread between one building and the next, using it to deftly and silently crawl across. Little bits of joy sparkle in his head – he secretly loves emulating a spider more than usual.

 

When he gets there, it is to see the back of a sitting Deadpool, who he just now notices is tossing bits of _something_ down to the incredibly excited group of raccoons.  It smells, most disturbingly, of offal.

 

…Except, now Peter doesn’t know what to do, exactly. His stomach is sort of rolling in tandem with the roving waves of unease that decorate his mind and the hairs on the back of his neck. Does he say something? _Can_ he say something? Wow – he really should’ve thought this out before he got on the roof, shouldn’t he?

 

His course of action is chosen for him, however, when Deadpool glances over their shoulder in the middle of tearing off a red, meaty chunk. Most likely because Peter is staring so hard in a bright red suit with giant, bug-like eyes does the mercenary let out a surprised little _‘woo!’,_ their body hopping with the motion.

 

“Whoa!” Deadpool exclaims, twisting in their unconventional concrete seat to look at the person behind them full-on. “I didn’t see you there, buddy.”

 

That was the point, Peter’s mind scowls at him. Now he has to live with the fact that his stomach is trying to trade places with his lungs and his heart is begging his brain for a vacation. It confuses his focus enough that all he does is raise a hand and… wave.

 

Deadpool acts like he just gave them a million bucks.

 

“Hi! Hello!” The mercenary crows back, wiggling in their spot with energy and excitement. Yet strangely, they don’t try to stand up, hands grabbing the sides of the building near painfully. “What’chya doin’ out here, huh, Spidey? Chasing a trail? Fightin’ some bad guys? Suckin’ some…” Deadpool coughs violently, a giant grin seen even under their thick mask. _“…thoughts?”_

 

Peter gives Deadpool a weird look, which doesn’t really transmute with his unchanging bug-eyed face. _Sucking_ on _thoughts?_ He should be accusing them of doing the same thing – he just found them sitting on a random building feeding a bunch of wild city animals, after all. That’s pretty suspicious and melodramatic, if you ask him.

 

“Um…” Peter gets out, before abruptly stopping. Deadpool just made a high-pitched noise.

 

The red-suited person continues his mishmash of unknown noises, hands coming up to pap at the sides of his smooth, leather-like face before near violently being slammed back to the surface of the roof.

 

 _“No!”_ He growls gruttally to himself, head turning more towards the road and away from Spider-Man. _“If you scare him off I_ will _shoot you…”_

 

Peter takes a shaky, deep breath. And then he puts one foot in front of the other.

 

Deadpool’s never hurt him before. He doesn’t even really know who Deadpool _is_ – and he’s not about to go anywhere near the Avengers (and thus SHIELD) in order to find answers the easy way.

 

So, he thinks as he gently lowers himself into sitting position some odd ways away from a preoccupied Deadpool, he’s going to have to do this the hard way.

 

First, Peter clears his throat. Mostly to get himself geared up for talking rather than to warn Deadpool. Unlike the last three (or, two, technically, if you don’t count the one out-of-suit) times he’s met Deadpool, he just got done mouthing off to different people. Rescued victims and webbed enemies alike; no one is saved from Spider-Man’s sarcastic barbs.

 

Even as Deadpool whips their head around to stare at Spider-Man like he just did something incredibly stunning (maybe he did), Peter has yet to feel the telltale roadblock in his throat and mind.

 

He’s not non-verbal right now. He can do this.

 

“Hiya, Deadpool,” Peter says in his best ‘I am your friend, not your target’ tone that he usually only saves for the police. Or sometimes particularly pathetic ‘villains.’ “Nice night, isn’t it?”

 

For several long moments, Deadpool only gapes at Peter. The silence isn’t very silent, as this is the city, but nobody is screaming and Peter’s senses are mostly focused on the apparently dangerous man next to him right now.

 

Finally, Deadpool busts into motion… and motor.

 

 _“Holy bajeezus!”_ The merc practically shouts, legs kicking back and forth as his arms come up to do panicked jazz hands. “He’s _talking_ to me! Oh _fu-_ what does my _hair_ look like.” He pats his head frantically. “Okay, my hair is- it’s gone. _My hair is gone-_ wait, I’m wearing a mask. Wait, _wait!”_ He flails a little bit, small bits of laughter slipping out. _“I don’t have any hair!_ Okay, that’s one problem…”

 

Peter is horribly glad that he chose to sit well outside of lunging distance, as Deadpool’s arms have not yet stopped flailing and generally being hazardous weapons. Also, the other person is very loud and big and scary and… Peter mentally kicks himself for sounding like a five-year-old.

 

“My breath, how’s my breath!” Deadpool gasps, pulling up his mask and breathing into his own palm, taking a quick sniff test of the spit particles there. “Oh, man; I _really_ shouldn’t have eaten that last burrito bowl… Fuck; mints, _mints,_ where are my _mints!?”_

 

Peter placidly watches as Deadpool digs into one of his pouches. In his hasty grabbing free-for-all, out falls a tiny knife, clinking against his booted foot and falling to the ground below. He doesn’t appear to give a hoot.

 

The small army of raccoons still swarming below scatter away, only to immediately come back and circle the weapon. Mere moments later, the biggest coon has grabbed the knife and is making a mad dash for the nearest alley. Its brethren follow in a squalling tizzy.

 

…Peter decides that that isn’t his problem. If his next villain happens to be an armada of raccoons with a knife, he’ll… deal with it later.

 

Just as he’s about to try and make a verbal conversation out of this encounter again, Deadpool triumphantly goes ‘a- _ha!’_ and pulls out what appears to be a mason jar full of green.  As they do so, something that suspiciously looks like a bootleg Spider-Man footie sock flutters to the ground below.

 

Peter once again decides not to dwell on it.

 

 _“Pickles!”_ Deadpool cries, like it’ll solve all of his problems. His mask is still partially up, exposing the pock-marked pink skin to the night air. He’s grinning. Peter feels his own mouth twitch in reluctant return. “I had no idea you were in there! C’mere, you…”

 

At that, Deadpool twists open the cap (it also succumbs to the fate of the ground below) and sticks his gloved fingers inside, fishing out a pickle and immediately beginning to crunch and munch on it.

 

Thankfully, the merc doesn’t try to offer Peter any, who now sits there with the dredges of _awkward_ crawling up and down his spine along with the soft warnings of _danger._ Both he currently elects to ignore.

 

He’s a little bit too preoccupied thinking about how Deadpool kept the bottle of pickles they stole from the store less than 24 hours ago, and yet is apparently unconcerned about their origin.

 

Peter swallows nervously as Deadpool finally (too soon, his mind sobs from some dark, calm corner that he isn’t allowed to be in right now) points their attention back towards Spider-Man, who was less ‘waiting patiently’ and more ‘scared stiff.’ Not that he’d ever tell the mercenary that.

 

“Hey – if you fight some bad baddies tonight, can I watch?” Deadpool asks, real casual, except their left foot appears to be trying to beat itself to death on the side of the building. “I promise I won’t pretend not to know who you are again.”

 

“You pretended not to know who I was?” Peter asks before he thinks better of it. Because; um, what?

 

Deadpool scratches the back of his head, looking as contrite as somebody partially covered with a mask and constantly shoving pickles in to their mouth can. “Yea, that- that wasn’t very _kosher_ of me. Haha, get it, kosher?” He wiggles the bottle around. Some of the pickle juice sloshes out and onto his leg. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Actually, that doesn’t work… Oh, oh! How about: cool as a pickled cucumber. Huh? _Huh!?”_

 

Peter’s logical mind whirs slightly. “Actually… isn’t a ‘pickled cucumber’ just a pickle?”

 

A heavy pause.

 

“We can still pickle it…” Peter offers, hands held up as if cradling the thing they were about to pickle. It has the abstract shape of a pie. “You can pickle lots of stuff, but it doesn’t necessarily _turn them_ into pickles.”

 

“Damn, he’s right,” Deadpool says, half a pickle sticking out the side of their mouth. It makes their cheek stretch and balloon. “We can pickle it!”

 

“Yea!” Peter says back, some of his faux-excitement not really faked. He’s just glad that he’s having a conversation without guns or knives present right now. “You can pickle eggs – I heard those are good.”

 

“Pickled vegetables,” Deadpool considers.

 

“Pickled, pickled uh…” Peter taps a finger to his chin. He doesn’t really know a lot of things that are commonly pickled.

 

“Pickled cars!” Deadpool shoots out with, giggling to himself.

 

“Pickled houses.” Peter plays along.

 

“Pickled guns.”

 

Uh… “Pickled glass?”

 

“We can pickle it!” Deadpool announces once more, except twice as excited this time. “We can pickle _people!”_

 

Oh, _no._ “I don’t think you can pickle people – “

 

“Of course you can!” The merc defends. “You just need a big enough, uh, pickle-r.” He munches on his last pickle. “Hey, Spidey.”

 

Gulp. That was a fast topic change. “W- what?”

 

“Do you know what we never considered?” Deadpool finishes, head turning to look over at his fidgeting companion. “We never considered _bananas.”_

 

Peter begins to sweat nervously. “Why bananas?” He asks, like he isn’t currently devising a way to knock Deadpool off of the building in a surprise attack and hightail it out of there. Niggling thoughts like ‘I’ve been found out! Run!’ permeate his mind.

 

“Bananas?” Deadpool echoes, lifting the jar as if to search for more pickles. “Can we pickle bananas? Nah, that’d be gross, even for us… Oh, hey!”

 

Fluttering at the bottom of the jar, on the outside, is a folded note that appears to be taped into place. As Deadpool peels it off with about as much care as an elephant in a pumpkin patch, Peter quickly reads ‘DO NOT FORGET, DP’ scrawled with bright red marker.

 

“It’s for Spider-Man!” Deadpool exclaims, as he unfolds the note slightly. “Wow! Wonder when I even _wrote_ this… Oh, well. Here!”

 

Deadpool leans over –

 

Peter’s mind _screams_ in a sudden crescendo, forcing his body up and away, standing and skittering to the edge of the building in a second flat.  His brain barely registers the visual of Deadpool doing the same, only a few increment times slower.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” The red-suited man puts his hands up, one filled with the empty jar, the other still clutching to the note. “Hold your eight-legged horses, babe! I ain’t doin’ nothing’ to ‘ya yet!”

 

Peter breathes deeply, only distantly recognizing the fact that he just _cartwheeled_ away from Deadpool. _Again._ He shakes his head minutely in exasperation, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the slivers of fear and doubt breeding in his body.

 

He never should’ve let himself be seen. Never should’ve sat down, get himself dragged into a conversation about- about _pickles,_ of all things. Peter adds ‘deceptively charismatic’ to the list of things he finds offensive about Deadpool, right next to ‘way too buff, stop it, you’re giving me a complex.’

 

“I’m just gonna… Hold it out like this, here, see?” Deadpool says slowly, hands still in the air as he flashes the white of the note a few times. “And you can… Use those there sticky white things to grab it, can’t you? He totally can, I saw it on Youtube.”

 

Not even resisting the sudden urge to roll his eyes – Deadpool can’t see it anyway – Peter concedes. He can, feasibly, with enough precision, grab ahold of the note and tug it towards himself. It would just be a little bit… webby, if he does.

 

Nevertheless, he can’t _actually_ see anything wrong with the proposal of grabbing the note, and he feels sort of bad for ‘overreacting’ again. He can leave right afterwards, anyway. He’s mentally exhausted and still a little bit keyed up from both patrolling and generally dealing with _Deadpool._

 

Nodding once (quick and efficient, like he’s seen Captain America do), Peter puts up one of his arms and gets ready to fire off a web.

 

Despite Deadpool’s incessant need to keep _moving_ (“Is this okay? Am I standing still enough? What if I pose like _this –“_ ), Peter eventually has the now extra-whitened note in his grasp. He has to fiddle with the remaining strings covering its back, thus ruining Deadpool’s marker reminder forever, before he can open it.

 

One eye on Deadpool, who appears to be heavily considering what to do with the empty jar they currently possess, and one eye on the note, Peter reads with a frankly tired mien.

 

 _‘Sorry for making you use the scare,’_ the note reads, varying between two distinct styles of handwriting. Across the rooftop, Deadpool attempts to punch a moth. _‘Sorry for calling you a discount Deadpal and telling America’s Bustiest Boy Scout that your face has been on my crotch before.’_ What appears to be a _‘won’t happen again’_ is scratched out furiously with some sort of sparkly pink ink gel.

 

 _‘I drew us!’_ The card proclaims. Underneath that is an impeccably colored picture of an unrealistically beefy Deadpool standing hand-in-hand with a spaghetti noodle Spider-Man.

 

Peter squishes his face up and tries not to be offended.

 

_‘Hope we can still be friends. Yours forever and ever and **ever,** D. Pool.’_

 

Peter sighs as he lowers the note from his face. Something like _anticipation_ wreaks havoc in the bottom of his stomach and in all of his limbs as he watches Deadpool try to engage the errant bug in combat, only to punch themselves in the face with a whingey _‘owww!’_

 

Here goes nothing.

 

“By the by,” Deadpool smoothly ( _what!?_ ) interrupts whatever Peter was going to say with, “You didn’t happen to see that person get, hmm, _kidnapped_ and _dragged into that scrubby, shady looking building over there_ , did you?”

 

While Peter is metaphorically stunned, Deadpool slides a bit closer and, with what he probably thinks is a ‘suave’ voice, cups a hand around his mouth in a faux-whisper which turns into a near shout. “That’s why you’re here, right? To fight some bad guys?”

 

“What!?” Peter gets out, shaking his head rapidly a few times in a tic as he peers over at the building Deadpool just motioned towards. “Is that… Is that why I was drawn over here?” So maybe it wasn’t even Deadpool that triggered his senses – maybe he’s not as broken as he thought he was. He can still do this.

 

“Oh, boy,” Deadpool hums, trying to rub his hands together only to be impeded by the lingering empty jar. “This is it. This is fucking _it._ _Plot_ is _happening_ , and I get to be front and center!”

 

With a hardly stifled giggle, Deadpool finds it necessary to lob the jar up and away from the building in a fit of violent littering. Peter covertly shoots a web and captures it, setting the jar down somewhere on the roof. It will collect rainwater and hopefully be a place for birds to drink.

 

“I’ve gotta get down there,” Peter tells himself, though Deadpool just happens to be there to listen as well. With a slightly frustrated noise, Peter asks the visibly excited tagalong, “Well? Are you coming or not?”

 

“Yes! Yes, a thousand times!” Deadpool cries, slapping his hands together and laughing. “I always knew this day would happen. I just wish I’d dressed more appropriately for it!”

 

“Stick close, do as I say, and _don’t_ pull anything funny,” Peter commands in his best ‘no nonsense’ voice. He doesn’t really want to know how else Deadpool would ‘dress.’ He can’t imagine them in anything but the red suit, anyway.

 

Kind of like Santa. Nobody wants to think about Santa in anything but a red suit.

 

Without further ado (or even checking to see if Deadpool can safely make it over), Spider-Man deftly launches himself up onto the building next to them, crawling his way around the side until he can leap between one building and the next.

 

He studiously ignores the excited squeal that follows his retreating back.

 

When he gets to the required roof, it’s to see that Deadpool is already there and peeking into the only available window that isn’t covered in plywood or piping. It takes a moment of shock before Peter remembers that the mercenary has (unreliable) access to a teleporter.

 

Pretending _really hard_ not to be utterly infatuated with _that_ bit of scientific magic (his web slingers suddenly feel woefully inadequate), Peter creeps up to the window as well. He sees nothing, but his senses prickle and he can make out raised voices, one distressed and one angry, from within.

 

Peter, damn him, feels marginally bad inside about sort of treating Deadpool like a leper. It was why he so ‘easily’ invited them to come with in the first place.

 

“Do you uh…” Peter hums indecisively. His hands are doing that weird thing where they spin loops in the air like they’re trying to weave something. “Do you wanna stick around and… Help out?”  That’s what Peter assumes they followed him over here for, anyway.

 

“…You were saying something?” Deadpool says as he looks up from fiddling with his phone. His voice is sort of faux-casual.

 

 _…Or_ he followed because he wants to get some good shots.

 

Peter has the sudden, dawning, crawling, _awful_ realization that Deadpool really _was_ taking weird photos of him on that roof that Tuesday.

 

“You know what,” Peter drawls tiredly, rubbing his covered forehead with one equally covered hand. It serves for some interesting sensory input. “Forget I said anything. I’ll… see you when I see you, I gue –“

 

“Wait, wait, wait!” Deadpool shouts (and flails. Can’t forget the flailing.) “I was joking, ahah- see, it was a joke! Like- like ‘we can pickle it!’ Hahaha, get it?”

 

“…Sure,” Peter gives.

 

“I am _so_ ready to do heroing stuff with you, I’m- I’m- I’m practically like a stuttering, flushed virgin over here, ripe and ready for their first dirty sheet rodeo,” Deadpool tells him, as it Peter has _ever_ had the desire to hear _anything_ be described in such a disgusting way.

 

“Neato,” Peter monotones, cringing under his mask and crying deep inside. “We’re gonna need to be stealthy, then. This looks like a job for delicacy.”

 

At that particular moment, a sharp cry rings from inside of the building, reminding them both grievously of why they are truly here.

 

“Oh, you want stealthy, do ya’, Spidey?” Deadpool questions him, lowly, and with a sly look that makes Peter worry like he never has before. “I’ll teach ya’ how to be stealthy here.”

 

“Oh, yea?” Peter plays along. He even finds himself putting his hands on his hips, as if in challenge. Anticipatory feelings bloom once more, giving him a small, refreshing spike of energy. “What can _you_ teach _me_ about stealth?”

 

Deadpool’s face does something funky, which is to say that he probably tried his damn hardest to waggle his eyebrows or something and it barely translates with the mask. “Spray the window with your webs and I’ll show ya’ _exactly_ what I mean.”

 

Skeptical, but much too high on these new, confusing feelings to give any more of a rational thought (oh, how he would pay), Spider-Man complies with the dubious request. He sets his right web shooter to a specific setting with only a flick of his pinky, spraying a thick, intricate, and complete web over the surface of the glass.

 

“How are you even gonna unlock a window with a bunch of synthetic –“ Peter begins to question, not seeing the logic of the situation yet.

 

Deadpool takes that moment to fucking obliterate the window by punching it.

 

Peter practically shrieks, jumping a literal meter in the air and coming back down hard onto the roof again. He barely sees Deadpool then _open the window frame,_ with _no glass inside of it_ any longer, and then turn to give him jazz hands.

 

“Ta-daaaa!” The mercenary cheers.

 

Peter doesn’t think he’s ever had such violent, vicious, and suddenly emotional thoughts before about a single person.

 

 _“What the hell was that!?”_ Peter switches between flinging his arms (which are _not_ noodly – Deadpool the Artist can go eat expired grapes) at the mess that used to be a window and the dumbly standing Deadpool. “What- wh- _What were you trying to even accomplish here!?”_

 

Before Deadpool can answer – probably something confusing and inane that would send Peter down the tumultuous tracks of a true and wondrous _rampage_ – a distressed scream and babbling of panicked speech bubbles up from the fresh, new hole in the building.

 

It is met with a meaty _thwack_ and the hissed command for “Silence!”

 

Peter’s mind settles with a wispy and tired ‘whatever!’ right as his heart – the damned, fickle, evil little thing – decides on a hearty cry of ‘revenge!’

 

What’s even worse is that it takes him only two sinful seconds to come up with the perfect plan.

 

Deadpool is standing right on top of a sturdy looking piece of plywood. Thing is, it also appears to be set on top of a naturally complicated bout of measured weights of other such objects.  The mercenary just happens to be balancing it all out, most likely from his sudden existence via teleporter.

 

Something inside of Peter smirks evilly. All of those anticipatory exclamations that were nefariously trying to convince him to ‘go easy’ or even ‘make friendly’ with Deadpool all clash together in one big, bad idea.

 

“Deadpool,” Peter hums in his most wickedly sweet voice.

 

Deadpool swoons. _Swoons._ Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen a real life person do something so dramatic before.

 

“You brought this upon yourself,” the human arachnid tells the red-suited person before they can open they mouth and let out something stupid and infuriating.

 

And then he tips the scale.

 

“Tiim _beeeerrrr!”_ Deadpool cries out comically as he dutifully continues tipping himself directly through the window, going headfirst with his hand clasped to his chest and all.

 

Peter could cry, it’s so beautiful.

 

…And then Deadpool breaks through the first dry-rotted floor like a sack of grain through an old man’s back.

 

“Aw, shit,” Deadpool cusses nastily on his way down. “Wasn’t there _several floo –“_

 

His body breaks through the next floor. Peter winces in turn.

 

Another lesson learned as to why ‘revenge’ is never the road to take.

 

Deadpool hits the bottom floor finally, which Peter only knows because he lets out the loudest, most drawn out and pained groan yet.

 

He also announces his final destination with a strained and joking “We’ve hit land, Captain!”

 

Shaking his head in another energetic tic used to (ineffectively) clear the mind, Spider-Man gently folds his body into the window and finds a way to web himself down without getting stabbed by glass, impaled by broken flooring, or landing on top of the bright red body at the bottom of it all, which just so happens to be Deadpool and…

 

…And another body.

 

Oh, holy cannoli.

 

Did Peter inadvertently just injure and or _kill_ the person they were supposed to be saving?

 

Feeling a bit faint, Peter takes another hopeful look around the scarcely lit bottom floor. His mind filters out the vision of Deadpool snapping his body back into place (okay; ew. That noise is going to feature in some nightmares) and jabbing the body under several pieces of wood with a booted foot.

 

“Oh em gee,” Deadpool says in a fairly flat voice. “I think I just took out our ‘bad guy.’”

 

There’s a soft sound within one of the shaded corners, and Peter automatically swivels to it. He barely registers the near automatic motion of putting up a hand to stop Deadpool from moving, or even worse, taking out a weapon (which they do anyway in the form of a really big knife.)

 

“H- hello?” The broken voice questions quietly, almost too quiet. “Are you… Are you Spider-Man?”

 

“Yea, hey – It’s me.” Spider-Man responds equally as softly, putting his hands down to his sides in a peaceful gesture. “Are you hurt? Was that person hurting you?”

 

“…I’m- I’m okay, now,” they answer, stepping forward slightly. Their bruises stand out even on their dark skin, and their eye is slightly swollen shut. Peter’s heart aches at the sight. “I’m just- just glad it’s over… For now.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘for now?’” Deadpool questions in such a low voice that Peter nearly startles. He pulls part of the knocked out body from underneath the light wreckage, unearthing a woman with brightly dyed hair. “This candy stripe bitch giving you trouble?”

 

“Ah- _ah-ah!”_ Peter admonishes, waving a hand. “Put her down!” A pause, in which Peter is (rightfully) shocked when Deadpool does as he says. “…And put that knife away!”

 

Deadpool grumbles in the background as Peter steps forward towards the injured person once more. He knows that his face is covered, so he tries to make his voice as empathetic as possible. “Can you tell me what happened? I want to help you.”

 

The person seems to hesitate, physically rocking back and forth as they appear to mentally debate between two options. “They… She had one of my previous clients, an ex-boyfriend of hers or something, f- find out all of my personal information.” They sniff quietly, obviously distressed at the recent memory. “She- she said I turned one of her ‘girlfriends’ gay or something. And, and that she would ‘figure out if I was a real man.’”

 

As they tell their story, Peter begins to fully flesh out the realization in his mind. This is the red light district after all – he’s had to step in to defend sex workers dozens of times, and it never gets any easier. Especially not for the worker.

 

“Heh,” they laugh a bit bitterly, swiping a hand under their noise to wipe away blood. “It’s always the dudes that cause trouble in the end. They come to me, and for what? I get paid back real good, in the end.”

 

“I’m guessing that you won’t be comfortable with me calling the police, then,” Peter says, gently, with as much understanding that he can muster. “Is there somewhere that I can take you where you’re safe?”

 

They seem to deliberate for a moment. A spark of something fills their eyes. “Can you… Y’know… Can you swing me there?”

 

“I totally can swing you there,” Peter assures happily. “Just as long as you can give directions from about four to twenty stories in the air.”

 

They breathe out what could be a laugh in a better situation. “I can sure try. It isn’t far. Besides, I don’t think I mind getting a little lost.” They sigh, rubbing the back of their head with a wince. “Man, when I walk in the door like this…”

 

“Wow – do I ever understand _that_ feeling,” Peter sympathizes. “How about you have a minute to yourself outside while I _wrap_ things up in here?”

 

With a face only slightly less broken than a few minutes ago, they use the only door in order to reach the outside again. Small signs of their previous struggle litter the way through. Peter can barely imagine what it must be like to see it from their perspective.

 

“Whew!” Deadpool suddenly breathes out loudly. “As much as I enjoy seeing you in action, there was a lot less _action_ and a lot more _feelings_ than I expected to encounter.” They rub at some indeterminate spot on their mask. “I need to upgrade my wetty-catcher-stuffins.”

 

“Yea, well,” Peter says as he turns back around to face Deadpool and their… client. “That’s how it goes down here. Lots of crime means lots of messes to clean up and lots of people to help heal.”

 

He awkwardly begins to tap a not-so-soothing-right-now tempo out on the back of his neck, arm coming up to drape across his hip bones and add weight to ground himself. He tries not to think about the weight of the note hastily shoved into the pocket next to his left web shooter.

 

“Hey, listen…” Peter says suddenly. Deadpool makes a weird noise as they’re cut off from whatever was about to come out of their opened mouth. “I’m… Sorry, about tossing you down here. That was mean and short-sighted of me. I could’ve hurt both you and someone innocent. In fact, I hurt somebody already...” His gaze unwittingly drifts to the person on the floor.

 

“Aw, spidey-babe,” Deadpool coos. Peter tries not to be offended. “That ain’t no ‘innocent filly’ down there. That’s the _bad guy!_ You know,” he makes guns with his fingers and mimes shooting them off, little ‘pow’ sound effects and all. “The one you should be muscling and tussling with – take ‘em _down!_ Save the city!”

 

“Still,” Peter continues. “I could have killed somebody, being so reckless. And, no matter how horrible I may think this person is right now,” Peter looks straight into Deadpool’s whited-out eyes, “I don’t have the power or judgement to decide whether they live or die. No one really deserves to _die,_ anyway – at least, I don’t think so.”

 

A heavy pause.

 

“Wow,” Deadpool gets out in a strained voice. He appears stiff and almost unnatural. “Just… wow.”

 

Peter shifts awkwardly, gearing himself back up for going outside and dealing with a potentially traumatized or in-shock person. “So… See you, um, later?”

 

 _“Ohhh,”_ Deadpool practically purrs, his body becoming loose and relaxed in the oddest of ways. “You bethcha’, Webs – we’ll be seeing each other again _real_ soon.”

 

Well, Peter thinks as he gives one last wave and heads for the door, that wasn’t mildly disturbing at all.

  
“One more thing, before you hop skip and swing your way out of here with that damsel of yours,” Deadpool interrupts the spider’s dignified scurry to the exit. “Don’t be surprised if Silver Hawkeye With Actual Silver Wings drops down to see you on your way back to your Spider Cave. I just got the message to meet up tomorrow muhself.” He sniffs once and gives Peter a significant look that is utterly destroyed by the whole mask thing. “Looks like our _rahn-day-voo_ is up for tomorrow night.”

 

Peter, despite being given some _really important information_ , plays it cool by not stopping to turn around and say “Couldn’t you have just told me that instead of being a creep!”

 

Closing the door on Deadpool’s cartoonish “hyuk hyuk”, Peter concerns himself fully with the person currently huddling in on themself on the sidewalk outside of the building.

 

“Shouldn’t you like… Do something about them?” They ask.

 

It takes Peter a few moments to figure out the ‘them’ being the woman who stalked and assaulted them, and not the masked mercenary which he just _left her alone with._

 

“Oh, my uh… My friend will take care of her,” Peter reassures, despite having no fricking idea if that is even remotely true. “We both know that she won’t… be lawfully processed or punished, under normal circumstances. He’ll make sure she does, though.”

 

After that, Peter gives them the piggyback ride of their life, swooping through some of the taller buildings in order to build up a (safe) amount of momentum. They don’t even seem to mind that he steers them off track a few times, completely endeared and enjoying their time in the air, free as a bird (or a spider on a string.)

 

Eventually, however, their fun night must come to an end. Peter drops them off at a well-worn apartment and sticks around to make sure they get inside alright. Someone fraught with worry answers the door, and bustles them inside, which gives Peter a shot of absent nostalgia at the sight.

 

Peter makes an anxiety-filled trip back to the building he (stupidly) left Deadpool in, only to find it vacant of both the mercenary and the woman. Trying not to bite his nails too much (Deadpool wouldn’t do anything… _bad,_ to her, would they?), Peter diverts his course and makes for a particular hotdog stand in Manhattan.

 

Somehow, it’s open and waiting for him.

 

“Where you been today, eh?” The old man asks him as he collapses onto the sidewalk, free and plain hotdog in hand. “I was keepin’ a ‘dog warm for ya’ all day, and _now_ ya’ show up?”

 

Peter’s tired chewing slows somewhat as points a concerned look up at the old man. “The same ‘dog? All day?” A pause. “Were you working all day, waiting for me? You should really get your Z’s, old man – don’t worry about what I’m doing.”

 

“Awh, yuk-a-puk,” the old man spits his favorite phrase. Peter still has no clue what it means. “You’re always out at stupid times, anyway. How’s a man to get any business if his number one customer doesn’t give him the time of day!”

 

Smiling wryly (despite the old man trying to assault him with a rolled up newspaper a few times after some of his snarkier comebacks,) Peter eats his ‘dog and chats amicably with his favorite stand man.

 

Sooner rather than later, disappointingly, Peter is perking his ears at the telltale sound of Falcon’s metallized wings sliding and clicking together, coming closer and closer to his currently stagnant position like a circling bird of prey.

 

Falcon lands artfully amongst the slightly awed crowds filtering through the borough like a school of salmon and appears to ignore the possibility of flashing cameras and beckoning voices as he heads straight towards the little hotdog stand.

 

“Spider-Man,” Falcon greets. His no-nonsense tone is slightly ruined by the fact that he’s standing over a lounging person chowing down on a hotdog like it’s the only meal they’ll ever have. “You know, if you’d just accept the phone we offered you, this’d be a lot easier on me.”

 

Peter chews for a few moments more before swallowing his last bite and standing, brushing off the grime that being anywhere near the New York ground brings from his suit.

 

“I think I just left Deadpool alone with a transphobic potential rapist,” Peter announces to Falcon in lieu of a response or actual greeting. “And now I have no idea if that was a good idea or not, because it was right after I tossed him through a window and two floors.”

 

The only thing that possibly tops the absolutely floored look on Falcon’s face is that, later, when he’s done delivering his message for Spider-Man to meet the Avengers at the previous warehouse on Friday night, the observing stand man tries to guilt him into accepting a free hotdog. He can only seem to deny one for about half a minute before he caves and accepts.

 

Peter grins at the two stupidly with his mask still half-folded up and uses that opportunity to web his way home for some much needed sleep (or, what is more likely; a night full of dwelling thoughts and anxiety.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [How vintage cartoon Spider-Man opened windows.](https://imgur.com/gallery/UlrurbV)
> 
> Deadpool has both schizophrenic and psychotic traits/symptoms, but I'm not diagnosing him with anything specific. Just know that he is Very Much Mentally Ill and has tons of memory problems. So many memory problems. This stretches from forgetting where he's at several times throughout the day to misplacing the date/time to completely mentally wiping out entire parts of his life. He just kind of accepts it. And breaks the 4th Wall with it.
> 
> Deadpool Tip: If you have memory problems, find somebody/multiple somebodies without memory problems (AKA Peter "Spider-Man" Parker.) Your life will get so much more organized with just a few casual, domestic, "honey how old am I again" questions everyday!


	5. five thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this finished for a while now, i'm just never home enough anymore to properly edit and post it :::(  
> so. MMph. uhh. here. just. take it.
> 
> WARNING: Brief mentions of attempted rape, assault, abuse/domestic abuse; tense situations, second hand embarrassment, misunderstanding central up in here; violence, disturbing descriptions (of food), injury, disorganized thinking, psychotic people acting psychotic.

 

In the specifically soft tone that alerts him to pertinent news updates on several bookmarked sites, Peter’s phone _pings_ while he is crouching over his laptop, editing photos and nibbling on the bag of crackers that Deadpool tossed at him in the store. The ones that took him half an hour of pacing and deliberation before the sound of his stomach trying to cave in on itself convinced him to finally open and consume it, worries pushed aside about it being ‘evil.’

 

The bananas, however, are being given a wide berth. _Very_ wide.

 

Absentmindedly, for his spidey-sense is silent, Peter sticks a cracker into his mouth and lifts the phone with the other, eyes still glued to the laptop screen, the question ‘20% transparency or 30%?’ stuck in his head, just like it is every other time he edits photos like this.

 

When his attention finally turns to his phone, however, all thoughts are snatched away at the contents of the handheld device. He even forgets to continue chewing, mind filtering into overdrive.

 

It’s of the hair-dyed woman – the one that he had ‘given over’ to Deadpool while he swung the assault victim to the safety of their apartment and concerned friend. She’s being charged for physical and domestic violence against several of her ex-boyfriends, all who readily came forth with evidence, most likely once they realized that someone would actually _listen_ without immediately dismissing or disbelieving them. She is also, worryingly, being charged with the attempted rape of an unnamed person.

 

…Ah.

 

Deadpool… really came through on this, didn’t he?

 

Peter has no doubt in his mind that, had this ‘case’ not been ‘dealt with’ (that sounded way sleazier than he thought it would, oh dear) by someone like Deadpool, then the news story wouldn’t have been shown for weeks, much less a business day later. The hair-dyed woman might not have even been charged properly, given that her abuse was against ex-boyfriends. Not a whole lot of people (or investigators) are readily chomping at the bit to acknowledge assault against men from women these days, much less against sex workers as well.

 

He (somewhat unwillingly) feels a swell of emotions gather in his chest, both in response to the justice and to Deadpool’s actions.

 

Suddenly, he can’t seem to contain his excitement for patrolling tonight. He has a Deadpool-dar – _as strange as that entire phrase is_ – right? However helpful or unhelpful it may be. Whenever he’s exhausted his routine for the night, he can follow _that_ and try to…

 

‘Good golly gosh – how did I get here? Oh, you’re here too? What a coincidence; let’s hang out hahaha.’

 

… “ _H_ _appen”_ upon Deadpool, hopefully in a neutral setting that doesn’t include someone being assaulted in a dilapidated building not but a hop-skip and a teleportation over.

 

Newly energized, Peter bounces up off his bed and shoves the last few crackers in his face, choking slightly on the dryness as he suits up and stealthily crawls out of the dark apartment complex.

 

All in all, a hilariously average night plays out (including this unique interaction:

 

“Spider-Man! Hey, Spider-Man! Down here!”

 

“Hello there, excited citizen. What’s the _problem’o?”_

 

“…Oh, nothing. I just wanted to get a selfie with my fave her –“

 

“Why, is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

 

“…”

 

“Did you almost try and rob Spider-Man; dude, that is so _shameless.”_

 

“…Please don’t call the police I– I was just joshin’ –“

 

“I’m wearing spandex! _Only_ spandex! Does it _look_ like I have a wallet stashed anywhere –“

 

“Listen! I can’t go back to jail, I– Wait, that’s _just_ spandex?”

 

“Aaaand this conversation is over.”

 

Peter webbed them up with his hour-dissolving solution, but didn’t call the police. It was actually kind of funny.)

 

Once he feels the beginnings of physical strain and mental exhaustion (as useful as his ‘spidey-sense’ is, it really drains him after a while), he steers himself in the direction that he’s naturally gravitated around like a small space rock to a larger space rock the entire night.

 

He supposes he’s afraid of losing his ‘signal’ on Deadpool, as Peter finds himself spending most of his patrol in Brooklyn, where the red-suited man seems to be stagnating.

 

It’s easy. It’s convenient. It’s concerning on some level that he isn’t going to observe just yet.

 

This is probably why he gets into so much trouble all of the time.

 

Swinging himself through the cityscape at a more relaxed pace than earlier, when he was actively hunting for ill-intentions that triggered his senses, Peter desperately hopes that he’s going to end up in a mostly public location. If he finds himself at an apartment or hotel or something, he is absolutely _not_ going to be knocking on any doors.

 

He has the urge to smack himself over it now. A _pre-emptive_ face-palm, if you will, to discourage his Inner Chaos from ruining his night. His week. His _life._

 

What would he even say? “Hi, Deadpool! Wanna come outside and play?”

 

Spider-Man dodges some construction. A woman operating a crane waves at him. He does a few artistically complicated flips in lieu of waving back, because the last time he tried to gesture while swinging loose like this, he face-planted on the side of somebody’s tower. It may or may not have been the Avenger’s Tower.

 

...He doesn’t like to think about it.

 

As a general rule of thumb, he doesn’t like to think about his embarrassments in front of _any_ super powered or mutated team _at all._ And there are a lot of them. Embarrassments, he means.

 

Such as the currently developing one where he finds the building Deadpool appears to be camping out on, is hit _hard_ with a smell so divine to his nearly-empty stomach that he becomes temporarily dizzy, and sticks the landing in such an obviously perfect way that he _trips and nearly falls flat on his face._

 

Peter feels like he’s being painfully, on a cosmic level, reminded as to why he has no friends.

 

The mercenary shrieks in a way that suggests they are both excited _and_ startled. They hop up from their seated position in a flurry, but their arms flail too heavily and they end up punching themself in the face – an embarrassment that even Peter can see from his semi-crouched position.

 

“Oh my god,” Peter gasps before he has the mental inclination to begin this interaction as he has all other interactions: non-verbal. “We’re both _bona fide_ messes.”

 

Deadpool lets out a huff of amusement, one hand still clutching his face with wide, white eyes, like he hasn’t fully caught up with the pain of self-punching yet. “I can’t even argue against that.”

 

Where there should be shared genial laughter, awkwardness quickly settles in.

 

Peter stands as slowly and smoothly as he can, fighting against his mind’s general mantra at this moment: _leave leave leave leave leave._ He takes a few covert glances at their surroundings and makes a mental map of the area. Everything is familiar in that way that has him feeling at home, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get lost if he navigates inattentively.

 

The building they stand on is well-lit by surrounding businesses, though street lamps don’t reach this far up. It isn’t so high that someone couldn’t see them from a neighboring window or roof, but it’s still heavily blocked in by taller architecture. Plus, it’s actually quite close to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, which is what they’ll need to cross in order to meet the Avengers over on Staten Island in a couple of hours.

 

Peter’s interest piques at the sight of a rumpled paper white bag with a gaudy orange and red logo on the front. It’s where the food smell is coming from. He shifts indecisively in place.

 

“So, I figured that uh...” Deadpool begins – not exactly wringing his hands, but his stilted mien is enough indicator for even the most socially graceless spider to glean from: he’s _nervous._ “You and your ickle spidey-powers and whatever magical garbage you’ve got going on found me easy enough last time, right?”

 

Peter doesn’t say or do anything, a little bit frozen in time. He feels like he’s been caught. Even though he knows, intimately, that he cannot simply cease the world’s spinning just to sit and ponder _how_ exactly Deadpool figured out he’s sorta kinda been tracking them through spiderly means, he tries to anyway.

 

It only serves to make him look like a confused statue.

 

“Oh hey what the fuck I was right,” Deadpool mutters. They continue in a much more energized voice, “Anyway – I was _right!_ Just wanted to get that out there a second time – and also I remember horfing a bunch of pickles in front of you without _sharing_ like a big dingus who had a night on the toilet shitting out his innards for that little _fox paws,_ so I figured that I’d make it up to you this time and hopefully mutually partake in one of the last joys in life that are actually, y’know, _joyful.”_

 

Deadpool takes two steps back. Spider-Man’s heart takes two leaps forward.

 

“I present to you,” they sigh dreamily in a breathy fashion, bending down and snapping back up quickly and deliberately with the white bag in their hand. It crinkles pleasantly, “lots of non-authetnic Mexican food and one _totally_ mentally sound idiot: at your gut’s service.”

 

They finish their dramatically lain spiel out with an arm-sweeping bow.

 

Peter can’t help the all-over bodily twitch in response, but the merc holds the bent position and makes no more threatening – or otherwise, according to his present-but-not-yet-sounding-a-truly-awful-alarm spidey-senses – movements.

 

Something inside of Spider-Man gives in with a sigh. It seems to be one of many.

 

“You know,” Peter says, voice not as small as the way he feels right now, “you’re pretty smooth for somebody who’s managed to punch themself in the face a whopping two entire times ever since I met you. Which was, like, barely a few days ago.”

 

He takes a few steps forward, as faux-casual as he can spare, as Deadpool slowly pulls out of the bow (but not without some particularly loud back-cracking.) He doesn’t flinch, much to his own surprise, but he can’t help the bracing breath he needs to take in order to keep going.

 

“ _Hyuk hyuk.”_ There’s that ridiculously cartoonish laugh again. Peter can’t tell if he hates it or not. “I _do_ try, thank you for noticing.”

 

Peter likes to think that he’s tricking himself in this moment, as he sits down with forcefully relaxed muscles on the edge of the flat roof. He’s softened by the food Deadpool also, unknowingly, gave to him earlier – to _Peter Parker,_ and not Spider-Man.

 

Plus, it’s just a really nice gesture. Something he’s coming to be less surprised about with the guy.

 

Deadpool sets the bag in between them as he also sits down with a noise. Because there’s always some kind of noise coming out of him, it seems.

 

Spider-Man sees the bag as a sort of neutral ground. He’s glad – he’s not sure what would happen if Deadpool were to get too close. _Touching_ close.

 

All it would take is a simple brush of the arms or a hand grabbing his shoulder before he hits total meltdown. His senses have been set to cloudy with a chance of _hell_ _fire_ even when Deadpool is nowhere near him all this week – he has only the faintest, most horrific(ly _embarrassing_ ) idea of what could possibly happen.

 

“Ladies first,” Deadpool says, opening up the bag in a crinkling, curling shuffle.

 

Peter cocks his head to the side.

 

He’s never actually encountered a ‘ladies first’ scenario. No one’s ever said this to him before.

 

He’s not sure what to do.

 

Thankfully ( _deja vu_ ), Deadpool makes the choice for the both of them when he cackles and shoves his entire arm into the bag, dragging out two tacos in just one hand.

 

Peter continues to draw a blank, unable to muster up a pre-formulated response (was it a joke? Maybe a serious one?) to the ‘ladies first’ display, and is stuck between either laughing or shaking his head when his hand, encouraged by his stomach, jumps the ship for him and also nabs a taco out of the bag.

 

“I still have that drawing you, uhh... _made_ for me,” Peter announces suddenly, surprising himself. “I gotta say – you have an eye for color, but not so much for anatomy...”

 

So _mayhaps_ he’s still not over how spaghetti-spiderish Deadpool made him in that drawing – so sue him. He gets a lot of body issues in his head when he spends a good portion of his teenage and adult life in a spandex suit and nothing else.

 

Peter unwraps his taco and stares down thoughtfully at it, too busy thinking about possible disclaimers of “please don’t actually sue me, I have no money” to roll up his mask in an anxiety-inducing show of trust.

 

If Deadpool is in any way surprised, they cover it up well by digging their partially unmasked face into half of a taco.

 

“Really? Because you don’t have to keep that thing, honestly,” they tell him, munching and crunching. Peter, once again, can’t tell if he hates it or not. “It uh, I kinda don’t remember writing that. _Sorta_ remember drawing it – and you’re right, you’re right, I went heavy on the presentation but not enough _umph_ in the essence of bringing out our _true characters –_ but it doesn’t mean anything, you could’ve tossed it ages ago.”

 

It _does_ mean something, Spider-Man realizes. Another thing he realizes is that Deadpool is surprisingly easy to read, which is a shocking admittance coming from a fully self-accepted autistic. The only things ‘easy to read’, in his autie opinion, are _books_ and _scientific articles stolen from a hacked library’s database._

 

He was _such_ a die-hard twelve-year-old.

 

His skin tingles uncomfortably as he slowly pinches the bottom of his mask near his neck and slides it up. It’s almost painful in a way, what with his senses fluctuating wildly in the presence of the person that does _this_ – whatever he wants to call _this_ – to him for a reason yet to be discovered.

 

Peter, a bleeding heart, feels the need to say something emotionally compelling before the moment passes. And the moment _always_ passes, so he opens his mouth –

 

“Thank you for – “

 

“So, I’ve noticed,” Deadpool abruptly bursts out with, startling Peter badly enough that he nearly drops his taco; his legs do a weird little spasm dance off the edge, “I’ve been a big – COUGH – a bit too much for you to be around, like, if that’s bad? Never mind I know it’s bad – anyway – you can tell me if you ever uh, need me to step off, I will, you’ve got a promise right there.”

 

Peter’s momentarily stunned – both by the confession and… and…

 

Did he just _say_ the word ‘cough’?

 

“No, it’s...” Really not okay and I’m constantly freaking out around you, “it’s not your fault. Probably.” It’s definitely your fault.

 

Deadpool snorts so hard a bit of food goes flying out of his mouth. “Oh _god_ – ‘probably’ he says.”

 

“I mean – you haven’t done anything to _me,_ and I’ll admit that...” Peter gets a little bit distracted by his taco, taking two bites in quick succession. “And, you didn’t even hurt that ‘bad guy’, you turned her in. Oh – sorry about leaving you with that mess, by the way. I was worried about the sex worker getting home safely.”

 

“Eh,” Deadpool chokes out. It sounds like he’s got meat lodged in his throat and is seconds away from coughing. Peter, an enthusiastic and fast eater, empathizes. “You seen one mess, you seen ‘em all. No big deal, spidey-kins – was happy to help and all that hero jazz.”

 

“If I’m being honest -” Peter pauses to swallow. This taco is _really good_ and he’s _really hungry_ but he’s trying not to look desperate so he’s taking tiny bites infrequently. “You’re actually one of the safer people I’ve been around these past few days.”

 

He cannot _believe_ the sentence (lie? Is it really? He wishes he had more time to think) that just came outta his own mouth.

 

Apparently, neither can Deadpool.

 

“Um… Do the goddamn _Avengers_ ring any bells?” The offended merc chortles unnervingly around a giant bite, some soft shell sticking out of his mouth. “Did you forget who basically _leads_ them? They’re as safe as you can get – big ole heroes with their giant metal _bit- “_

 

He chokes on something and takes a moment to hack it over the side of the building. It nearly hits his leg.

 

Gross.

 

Also, Peter’s almost sure that they were referring to Iron Man with that last half-finished remark. He can’t find it in him to disagree.

 

“That Widow scares me though, I’ll give you that. _Yeesh.”_ Deadpool does an all over body shiver.

 

“I’m a spider,” Peter counters, because apparently his brain doesn’t follow logic.

 

“I like spiders.” Deadpool looks over at him with a quirk of a greasy, meaty smile. There’s lettuce bits in the corner.

 

In response, Peter takes a hasty bite of his taco, avoiding the gaze.

 

“See? Sexy,” the other person jokes, giggling nonsensically around their third taco.

 

“America’s Big Blue Boyscout,” Peter continues as smoothly as he can. He feels the need to explain himself and keep this conversation going – it feels like something important, “Yea, I know. Except they’re not really… Well… Maybe they’re a bigger _part_ of the problem...”

 

Never mind; it’s not as important as preserving his dignity and not fricking _stuttering._

 

“You don’t say?” The merc in red peers over at him with twinkling eyes as they peel the rest of their mask off and let it drop behind their back. Their near feverous, irritated skin isn’t hard to see at all in the night’s artificial light. Something shallow inside of Peter wishes that it was.

 

Peter sighs, looking down at his second taco. He has no idea when he got a second taco, or even when he finished his first, but he’s rolling with it.

 

“They don’t...” Que another frustrated sigh and anxious toe twiddle. Somehow, thankfully (wow he really needs to stop being so surprised with everything Deadpool does that isn’t automatically crime and obvious murder) the other person doesn’t derail him by saying anything. “They don’t really… treat me like I’m fully human.”

 

“ _What!?”_ Deadpool swings his head to the other side, as if he’s looking at someone else in shock, before throwing his heavy eyes back at Peter with a surprised and loaded expression.

 

“You don’t believe me?” Peter’s getting a little incensed – he’s not afraid to get on a soap box when it comes to the Avengers.

 

“Nah, it’s not like that – of course I believe you,” Deadpool is quick to reassure him, scratching their nose and avoiding his gaze for a hot second. “But damn if that doesn’t sound familiar as all get out.”

 

“What did they do to you?” He finds himself asking before his mind is fully caught up. Because they must have done _something,_ right? They _always_ do something, whether people want them to or not...

 

“Can’t be said,” the merc evades. The air is heavier. “But I’ve been banned from that big fuckin’ tower except ‘when in an absolute emergency,’” they mimic a posh voice. The reference to a certain British UI is immediately understood, and Peter finds himself nodding. “But, _but!_ Listen to this fat load of tripe: when there was _totally_ an emergency, they _still_ wouldn’t let me in! Can you believe those elite dildos? The nerve! It’s like that scene in Cinderella; you can’t _not_ invite the biggest, wickedest witch of the land to the party! Your kid will prick her finger and have to kiss some dragon-killing dude and then decades later, you have to pay Angelina Jolie a bunch of money to star in a movie about your enemy!”

 

“Sleeping Beauty,” he corrects automatically. “What was the emergency?” Peter asks, genuinely curious.

 

Deadpool slowly moves their arm across the bag-induced gap, touching their taco to Peter’s taco, which had gone slack in his hand as he became invested in the conversation, and sluggishly raises it until Peter takes a tiny, distracted bite. “I forgot that I called the pizza place five separate times in one night so I had too many pizzas.”

 

Peter chokes somewhat on his distracted taco nibble.

 

An over-encumbered sigh. “And no one to share them with.”

 

Spider-Man makes a non-complacent noise. He can’t tell if that’s funny or sad.

 

“So.” Deadpool stretches out, leaning back with both arms until he’s a little more sprawled than perched. The greasy taco wrapper still stuck in his hand nearly makes him slip and fall. Peter pretends to not have seen. Deadpool apparently forgets it even happened not but a second later. “What’d they do to _you?”_

 

Peter wipes his hands (but despite how careful he was while eating, he can tell already that his gloves are going to be annoyingly oily until he washes them) and chews thoughtfully on his last bite of taco, rocking forward absentmindedly and staring up into the sky.

 

“That’s also hard to say,” he admits.

 

Because it is. He knows now that he’s got ears with somebody who has also apparently experienced trifles with the Avengers, but he’s not 100% sold on the idea of ‘Deadpool’ in the first place. His spidey-senses won’t let him be.

 

“But do you need to say it?” Deadpool questions, voice a little less all-around manic and little more serious. It’s so strangely comforting that it almost hurts. “I’m all ears, all for you, literally 24/7 _‘probably,’_ holla at’cha boy – is that my catchphrase? Huh. I’m okay with that being my catchphrase – I ain’t even kidding. Lay it on me, home slice. Dirt? On those dirt bags? I’m down.”

 

Peter really does let out some kind of wonky, weak chuckle this time. Maybe it’s in relief. “One: we can’t stay here all night, we’ve got a mission in like, half an hour. And two...” He takes a breath. “I guess I do. I’ve never really told anyone.”

 

They both reach for another taco at the same time, and Peter nearly has a conniption snatching his arm back and avoiding physical contact. To their credit, Deadpool only keeps going, though slightly slower than before, and takes out one taco. Peter hesitantly does the same, taking a deep breath to calm himself as well as he can manage.

 

His hand shakes minutely. He wishes this wasn’t happening.

 

“...It’s just hard to t- trust a team of people that were once taken over by a, by a _Nazi group,_ you know? Plus, they’re always infighting...” Peter cops out of answering for real, taking a larger than usual bite of his third taco. It dribbles some juice down the side of his chin, and he wipes it off with his forearm. The feel of the outside of his suit on bare skin isn’t the best thing ever, and he makes an uncomfortable noise.

 

Deadpool makes an uncomfortable noise back. “Was that your ‘step off’ sound? ‘Cuz I can memorize it no problem’o, boyo. Unless I get it mixed up with your mewly sound that’s like, ‘I’m interested but I can’t ask’, or your _other_ other mewly noise that _miiight_ mean ‘I’m here to steal your -”

 

“I... didn’t need to know that,” Peter interrupts them in a deadened voice, though it’s more aimed at himself than Deadpool. Is it _disturbing_ that he doesn’t find it as _disturbing_ as he thinks he should? “And, uh… Maybe. I just don’t think it’s a… _good idea_ to talk about something like that right now.”

 

They both go quiet. It’s not a very nice quiet – it’s the kind you wish you didn’t have to experience because it’s painful and awkward and hard to break, and everybody’s really aware of it, and it honestly makes Peter sweat and shake a whole lot and makes him wish he had a big mouth on him right now but instead he’s just a lump, a terrible lump that, for once, can’t make a joke to save its life –

 

Deadpool pulls out their phone from one of their… pouches.

 

Peter squints at them and their pouches and their phone and experiences a kind of vertigo that he can’t quite explain, but he has a terrible understanding that it somehow, some way, has to do with Deadpool’s strange, strange pouches.

 

Spider-Man shakes his head and voraciously eats the rest of his taco.

 

“Did you know that the word ‘lunatic’ derives from uh...” Deadpool, who had deliberately and loudly set their phone down next to their thigh, makes a highly convoluted and frustrated face, eyeballs and whole torso leaning to the side like somebody trying very hard to cheat on a test. “From uhh…”

 

Peter can’t help it. He looks at them oddly.

 

And this time it’s not because of their hammerspace pouches that make no sense.

 

“Fuck it,” they say, pulling their phone back towards their face and making angry eyebrows at it as they tap away. “I’m googling it – who the fuck does this. Conversations? Small talk? Like _normal people_ do? Give me a Hawaiian break...”

 

The human spider can’t help the little laugh that escapes him as he kicks his feet on the sides of the building, reveling in that hard _smack-smack-smack-smack_ feel and sound. “I’m flattered at the lengths you go through for me.”

 

“Lengths?” The red merc knocks the empty bag off of its perch so that it lands behind them on the roof, smacking his (poor, abused, likely expensive. Peter’s inner college student weeps) phone down in between them. “Lengths!? I’ll show you _lengths_ when I beat you to the meet site, fancy flinging webs or no.”

 

Peter’s head snaps over to look at Deadpool a little incredulously.

 

Since when was this a race?

 

It all happened so fast. Now he’s getting those feelings he got, when they were both standing in front of that (totally unlocked, easy to open window that did not require ‘extra stealthy punching’ to open, _Deadpool!)_ building that led them to the brutalized sex worker.

 

It feels a lot like… excitement. Competitiveness.

 

And a weird, weird sense of _friendliness._

 

Peter shudders.

 

Deadpool must take this as some sort of sign of hesitation, or apprehension, or _something,_ because he slaps a hand up under his chin and delays putting his mask back on in order to stare imploringly over at Peter.

 

“Hey,” the mercenary, who Peter has been told by multiple sources to ‘stay the hell away from’, says in such a gentle voice that he has to grab his chest and squeeze his skin in order to obtain mental balance once more, “if they ever try any shit on you again, you can always tip them through a _skillfully_ unlocked window.”

 

Peter accidentally pinches himself in his haste to flail and sqwuak. “Hey! I said I was sorry about that.” Then he narrows his eyes and pins them on Deadpool, which the other person can’t see, but they appear to feel the glare anyway, because they quickly sit up and strike an ‘I surrender!’ pose with a squeak. “Also – I’m still mad you punched that window for no good reason. A perfectly unlocked window! There was absolutely _nothing_ ‘stealthy’ about it at all, plus you threw glass everywhere!”

 

‘” _Stealth”, my_ _iconic_ _blue_ _ass!’_ is what he _doesn’t_ say, because he’s Spider-Man, and he’s neighborly and friendly and he isn’t _allowed_ to cuss, even though he really wants to right now.

 

Deadpool relaxes and snorts. “Did I just drag Spider-Man? I think I just dragged Spider-Man.” He stands and stretches. “And it was covered in _your_ webs, honey. There’s a difference.”

 

Spider-Man quickly stands. “There is _not_ a difference, you- you _miscreant.”_ His spidey-senses seem to yell a bit more when he is sitting while the object of his _spidey-obsessions_ is not. “Or… I could, uh, throw my crotch at their face and make a quick getaway?”

 

The other person makes an excited honking noise, laughing. _“Now_ we’re talking! Don’t forget to ruin their phone camera, forcing them to buy (or make, with that Stark-man around) a new one!” They shove their mask onto their face. Despite this, they mock-sniff and place a finger under one of their white eyes, as if holding back a tear. “I know, I know – he has _such_ a way with humor.”

 

Peter decides to ignore that, because he enjoys sanity 95% of the time.

 

And then comes the other 5%, where he finds himself dancing all around the roof with an indecisive, talkative Deadpool who loops their way through many different subjects without finding a cohesive beginning or ending to any of them, baffling Peter beyond what he thought was comprehensible.

 

The two red-suits somehow get on the topic of this:

 

Spider-Man’s brow furrow is so large that it is pronounced even through his mask. “I can’t be a ‘mad genius’ as you say – I love sleep too much. Have you ever met anybody like that, that actually had a healthy snooze anytime recently? I don’t think I have, and I’ve met a _lot_ of people who are sure fond of the ‘mad genius’ label.” They were also usually pretty violent, but he’s going to leave that out for right now.

 

“Colorful characters, I get ya’.” Deadpool slams one of his big red boots onto the ledge, leaning onto his own knee as he peers over at Peter, who stands awkwardly in a maybe-not-that-subtle ‘are we leaving yet?’ pose, which includes a little bit of idle bouncing. “But be honest with me, chump – how much sleep have _you_ gotten this week?”

 

Peter thinks about it. Thinks about it some more. Gets a little bit embarrassed. “Uhh...”

 

“Exactly!” Deadpool crows excitedly, fist punching the air a couple of times. They manage to not end up with one in their own face this time.

 

It’s actually probably because of you that sleep has taken a vacation, is what Peter declines to add.

 

In fact, he’s so incensed by that reoccurring thought that he ceases his impatient, anxious bouncing just long enough to slightly zone out and not see Deadpool pick up the empty taco bag.

 

...but Peter _does_ notice that Deadpool practically imitates jumping on a trampoline until they see that he is looking over at them, before they stuff the bag into their unnervingly spacious-yet-small pouch.

 

Peter squints.

 

Deadpool waves, acting nonchalant.

 

Peter debates the pros and cons of pointing out “hey, you didn’t litter this time by violently throwing your trash across the road! Amazing,” or by doing nothing and pretending he never saw.

 

In the end, all he can settle on doing is giving the merc a thumbs up.

 

Deadpool wiggles in place, smile big and broad even though his thick mask.

 

Peter feels almost offended at the interaction.

 

“Still hungry?” Deadpool asks, smacking his hands once and rubbing the leather-like palms together to create a static sound.

 

Absolutely, is what Peter thinks. “I could eat,” is what Peter says.

 

Deadpool hums. “Well, to keep that delicate tummy of yours in tip top shape -”

 

What the hell.

 

“What the hell -”

 

“- we’ll each only have to buy one taco,” Deadpool continues, as if he wasn’t an unnerving motherfucker, “and carry it to the meet-site!”

 

Ah, Spider-Man realizes. This is still about the ‘sudden race’ thing. The one he never agreed to, but is strangely worked up for anyway.

 

Huh.

 

Life’s greatest mysteries, Peter supposes, even as he clenches his fists, crouches down at the furthest corner of the building, and shouts, “You’re on!” at Deadpool before launching himself off into the vague direction of what he knows to be a place that probably sells tacos.

 

Behind him, Deadpool whoops loudly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Haha! I win! _Admit_ that teleportation is _way cooler_ than web-slinging.”

 

Peter falls, grabbing onto the metal beam sticking out of the edge of the cast-away machinery with so much barely restrained force that it dents audibly as he hangs there. Deadpool makes an odd, choked noise and whispers something in another language. _“It is not._ And _you_ _did not!_ At least _I_ got to actually take my food with me, rather than losing it to the frickin’ _void._ Plus, where the hell did you teleporter go anyways? It’s gone again!”

 

“Actually, it’s the metaphysical spaces between time and realities,” Deadpool simpers unhelpfully, pointing and waggling a finger in Spidey’s direction. They make absolutely no mention of their mysteriously missing teleportation belt. Figures. “And it looks like your meaty fists grappled with more than just _webs_ on the way here.”

 

Sure enough, some of the meat from his taco has spilled over onto his glove, making Spider-Man’s hand a little sticky with juice. Gross. And somewhat concerning; he had no idea he was gripping his taco with too much force. It makes him wonder if the people he’s carried ever go home with bruises.

 

So he plays it off with a shrug, dropping to the night-darkened concrete with a careless thud. “Technicalities. And would you stop groaking me!”

 

“That’s not even a word!”

 

“Yea it is, and you know what it means, so it totally is a word!”

 

“Only on urbandictionary.”

 

“Whatever – you’re not getting this taco. I bought it myself.” ‘Bought’ being a word of misdirection – he and Deadpool apparently went to the same taco place, since Peter was barely in the door before the frightened cook was literally tossing free tacos at him like weapons and begging him to get out.

 

Deadpool sucks in air so hard that the fabric around his mouth caves in and he chokes a little bit. “You _dirty millennial_ – I bought you the other three!”

 

“You just ate _eight_ tacos!”

 

“Haha, alliteration.”

 

Iron Man, insofar being ignored like his other Avenger teammates, clutches at his metal chest in the approximate location of where his heart is and makes an exaggerated gasp of worry. “Oh god, no; they’ve _found_ each other.”

 

Spider-Man abruptly realizes that he and Deadpool had been, per what aunt May usually calls, ‘going at it’ right in front of Iron Man, Captain America, Falcon, Hawkeye, and Black Widow. He quiets down and stiffens, not even reacting when Deadpool creeps over and snatches the taco right out of his hand.

 

For a few moments, all that’s left in the current atmosphere is the slurping noises Deadpool is making and the usual cityscape sounds.

 

Peter guesses that everybody is waiting for him to do or say something, but he’d really rather not when all he has in his throat is a sqwuak and the dreadful feeling that he needs to offer some sort of blame-shunting excuse.

 

Someone coughs awkwardly. It was probably Falcon, who is too cool for things like awkward silences.

 

“We shouldn’t waste anymore time,” Black Widow breaks the air with.

 

“Right,” Captain America agrees, looking casually unaffected by all the shenanigans he just witnessed. “We get in, we get out, hopefully whoever this is doesn’t have anything up their sleeves.”

 

“They literally always do,” Hawkeye complains quietly, but everybody seemingly ignores him. He just scrunches up his face and shrugs. “’Kay, whatever. I’m on perimeter with Nat – ready to scale some walls?”

 

For a second, Peter thinks the marksman is talking to him – you know, the resident wallcrawler? Wallscaler? Never mind, that doesn’t sound as catchy – but then Black Widow nods as she and Hawkeye both split up and head to opposite sides of the building, beginning to use their own methods to climb the walls and infiltrate quietly through one of those shifty warehouse windows that are usually way high up.

 

As per usual, it seems that Hawkeye is on sniper while Black Widow is on both long-distance and ground take-down. This would be nearly impossible for anyone else, but she’s got some climbing rope and heavy duty belt clips, and she’s not afraid to get her shiny body con suited butt down there in a flash.

 

Cap is approaching where Spider-Man and Deadpool have been hovering, slightly away from the group. Peter doesn’t know why – sometimes he’s got the energy to loudly insert himself within the Avengers’ little posse, but today he’s hanging back. As to why Deadpool also stayed back is a mystery, and he isn’t ready or willing to ask.

 

A glance over at the merc reveals a smile big enough to poke through their leathery mask. There’s no drool this time.

 

“’Sup?” Spidey asks.

 

Any conversation between the two is dashed when Mr. American Man (wow, Deadpool’s really skewed his perceptions lately) plays with a silver earpiece in his blue-suited hands, looking contrite.

 

“So, there’s a little bit of a problem,” the super-soldier admits with an apologetic smile. “Tony only brought one extra comm. I’m not going to say that it’s because we weren’t expecting both of you to be able to show up, but...”

 

“It’s fine,” Peter waves off with a hand. “Deadpool can have it. Those things are always too loud and itchy, anyways.”

 

Cap looks down and gives him one of _those_ smiles. “Clint would disagree with you about that.”

 

Peter crosses his arms and pretends to be very snooty. “Spiders and Hawks are very different species, if you didn’t know.” He sniffs, hiding a smile behind his mask. “I can just relay through Deadpool...” He looks over at said man. “If that’s alright with you?”

 

“What’s alright with you is just dandy with me!” Deadpool readily accepts the earpiece, shoving their mask up and placing it in the right spot. “All’s well here, Troop Leader.” A saucy thumbs up.

 

Cap only shakes his head slightly, motioning to Spider-Man in a ‘do you want to come with me?’ gesture, one that Peter barely appreciates.

 

On the fence, Peter takes a quick glance at Deadpool, then back at Captain America, before declining the offer.

 

The Captain looks a little bit confused, eyes flicking between the two, but he accepts the answer gracefully enough, and leaves the two red-suits alone for the time being.

 

“Um...” Peter begins with, because he’s articulate and full of luscious vocabulary. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you really shouldn’t say stuff like that. I mean, we barely know each other.”

 

“I shouldn’t say a lot of things, sweetie-buns,” Deadpool flippantly replies with, cracking his neck in two places. His mien is erring just on the side of condescending, and Peter has to fight not to bristle. “Like that, apparently. Did you know that when you’re all huffy and puffy, you almost always hum and cross your arms?”

 

Peter startles and uncrosses his arms.

 

Thwarted again by those impossibly inconvenient observation skills.

 

Deadpool giggles annoyingly in response. “Don’t worry – I’m sure we all think it’s just _soooo_ _adoooorable.”_

 

“Oh yea, well...” Spidey spiders his arms around aimlessly, trying to build up some sort of verbal answer from all the mental responses he currently has all bunched up in his head, knocking around with his anxiousness. “Well… Your art lacks realistic anatomy _and_ the proper substance! So, there!”

 

Deadpool gasps dramatically, causing Peter to skitter away from the blast zone in a small spidey-fit (yes, that’s a thing.) The ominous sounds of booted feet hitting the ground follows him, so he shimmies his way behind a bemused Falcon and hides there, heart quivering with those weird competitive emotions again.

 

“Has anybody seen that no good, two-faced, lyin’ spider? He did me a bad one, and now I’m fixin’ to show him what-for.” Deadpool announces to the group.

 

Spider-Man pokes his head out from behind one of Falcon’s silvery wings. _“Go eat expired grapes,”_ he seethes without heat.

 

The red-suited man touches a hand gently to his own chest. “I am hurt by this.”

 

“Okay, kiddies...” Iron Man butts in with. “Let’s pretend that we’re actually a highly functional group for a couple of seconds, then you two can go back to your playground.”

 

Spider-Man feels a tickle in his senses that, for once, doesn’t have anything to do with the literal mercenary standing barely a few feet away. He has the awful feeling that he’s about to be grabbed by someone, most likely Iron Man, probably to be corralled. The Avengers sure love to corral him, especially physically and with hidden social rules.

 

He reacts by moving away from _everybody_ and standing up straight and serious.

 

It’s sort of ruined when Deadpool comes side-stepping over to shadow him once more.

 

He just sighs and accepts his fate, whacking his squealing spidey-sense with a rolled up newspaper, like it’s an uppity little dog rather than the innate thing that saves his life everyday.

 

“Wid’s and Hawksy have eyes,” Iron Man says. “They’re saying that there _is_ somebody in there, but there’s a bunch of stuff in the way and several hidden rooms, it seems. They think we need everybody in there for damage control.” A pause. “Oh, and Clint’s complaining about it ‘never being easy’ again.”

 

Peter can barely hear somebody grunting something angrily from Iron Man’s comm.

 

“So, it’s settled,” Falcon says, “I get to go home and relax, right?”

 

Iron Man sighs, like he’s lost a bet or something. Who knows – maybe he has. “Yes, you get to go home while the rest of us get to slough our way through this disgusting warehouse in the middle of the night. Are you happy?”

 

“Very; ciao, y’all.” Falcon takes flight with barely a goodbye, just dandy as can be with leaving his teammates to the routine grunt work.

 

“Bye!” Spider-Man calls, and is rewarded with an amazing loop trick from the winged Avenger.

 

For some unfathomable reason, something compels him to look over to Deadpool and say, “See? Sometimes it pays to be nice.”

 

Deadpool gives a laughing sigh, shaking his head.

 

“Birds are really cool,” Peter defends weakly.

 

Iron Man and Captain America begin creeping up to the building, the billionaire with the titanium-alloy bodysuit throwing the doors open while the super-solider in the semi-vintage costume creeps in like he’s wearing silk slippers instead of army boots.

 

“Autobots, roll out.” Deadpool makes rudimentary vehicle noises as he plows forward and somehow manages to fully enter the warehouse before either of the Avengers, earning himself several scowls.

 

Now Spider-Man is the one sigh-laughing, using his webs to launch himself into the open door for a quick entrance. He lands lightly on his feet in the yawning darkness, eyes adjusting quickly as he spares a look around.

 

A bunch of stuff, blue-black in the night with the scant city light from the windows, sits around and collects dust. Machinery parts, kind of like the ones he accidentally butchered outside with his ‘meaty fists’, are quiet and lifeless on the stripped concrete floors.

 

It appears to be one of those open warehouses – no two floors or any doors leading anywhere except back outside.

 

However, Hawkeye and Black Widow said otherwise, so Peter keeps a sharp eye.

 

Still – it’s sorta hard to miss the bright yellow banana suit sprawled lifelessly in the middle of the floor.

 

“Uh,” Iron Man draws up short, pointing several lights at the limp suit on the floor. “Is this the ‘abnormality’ you guys were going on about? Because to me, it looks like a drunkard in an unfortunate costume on a day too far away from Halloween to be pulling this kind of shit.”

 

Peter would love to respond with a teasing, _“Oooooh,_ world playboy philanthropist Iron Man Tony Stark himself just cuuuuuusssedd, _ooooooh!”_ except he, too, it staring at the anomaly on the floor.

 

A squared, awkward shape for a banana to take. There’s the four nodules in the approximate locations of where arms and legs could sprout, said limbs too shrouded in cast shadows to be truly examined. A general sense of unease permeating his mind, spidey-sense nudging at his spine like it wants him to get the heck out of there, but isn’t sure why.

 

He may not be ready to admit it, but… This ‘banana suit’ looks remarkably similar to the evil bananas currently palling around in his apartment, taking up space and generally making a silent riot.

 

But, seeing his realized theory of limbs sprouting from an oddly-shaped and created fruit is enough to make his body a wound up spring-lock – stiff and stagnant – on the warehouse floor, only vaguely aware of everyone else’s positions at the moment.

 

There’s a beat in the back of his head that has nothing to do with an ache and much more to do with the warring of his senses.

 

Should he turn around? Or should he keep his eyes and ears pointing at the thing several meters away that will definitely haunt his dreams if it gets up and starts yelling?

 

Something out of his control makes that choice for him.

 

Very nearly screaming himself, Peter suddenly finds himself responding thoughtlessly to the beat in the back of his mind becoming a thunderous crescendo, causing his body to fling itself forward in that gosh darn cartwheel maneuver that he is getting so, so tired of.

 

Except, when he lands back on two feet again, his senses don’t quell in the slightest. If anything, they get louder, and _louder, and louder, and – !_

 

Deadpool’s coming right for him.

 

And something _else_ is coming right for him, too, from some yet determined direction, and Peter begins to panic, because Iron Man and Captain America are somewhere else, they aren’t here, and _Peter can’t move!_

 

Arms outstretched and moving forward at a dead run, Deadpool looks like the nightmare Peter’s been trying to ignore. His vision tunnels, and he lifts one leg in a kick that only barely brushes Deadpool’s temple, sending their torso cracking backwards yet doing nothing to stop their momentum.

 

Their body slams right into his, and they both go sprawling several feet away.

 

Something heavy and loud goes clattering to the floor a mere second later, and Deadpool grunts a brutal noise from next to Peter’s head, muffled from how their face is pressed against the floor.

 

Mind on a wire, Spider-Man scrambles away hurriedly, but doesn’t manage it all of the way, because one of Deadpool’s hands is latched onto Peter’s upper arm in a death grip that he is only just now registering as painful.

 

And Deadpool’s other hand is… Well…

 

It’s sitting, almost innocently, severed, at the other side of the giant collapsed metal sheet that had been heading for Spider-Man’s empty little head during his dork ass freak out.

 

There’s quite a bit of yelling after that, but all Peter can do is stare down at Deadpool, who is finally picking themself up with their elbow – because their right hand is _fucking gone_ – and acting blasé while examining their injury.

 

“Huh,” they cough; probably from where Peter wretched their head back with a _foot to the head_ _._ “Well, would’ya look at that.”

 

Peter’s voicebox lets out a weak chirrup without his express permission. Half of Deadpool’s body is laying across his legs, left hand still latched onto his arm. It’s all very heavy. None of it feels nice, exactly, but he can’t imagine what _Deadpool_ must feel like right now.

 

He literally cannot imagine it. It’s too disturbing.

 

The stump squirts blood from sliced arteries, though the gore is thankfully pointed so that it just misses Peter’s own body. Bone, artlessly gnashed in half, juts outward. It isn’t nearly as pearly white as everybody seems to make it out to be in media.

 

Somebody slots their hands up under his armpits and pulls him out from under Deadpool’s body. His legs finally kick back online again and he shakily walks backwards with them, until he finds himself leaning onto Captain America’s chest and watching Iron Man stand above the merc as they pick themself up off the ground.

 

Frazzled beyond comprehension (which is a very bad look for Spider-Man. It’s a ‘Peter Parker’ thing that he usually tries very hard not to crossover, but, well… Extenuating circumstances.) Peter can only watch blankly as Iron Man begins unloading several loud words into Deadpool, who appears to be standing passively and just… taking it.

 

Which isn’t fair, because he’s pretty sure they just saved his life or something dramatic like that that he can’t fully comprehend right now.

 

Cap begins rubbing a comforting hand over his shoulder, and he comes back down to himself like a plane’s slow descent.

 

He lands right in the middle of Iron Man shouting something about “- acting like a normal human being for once in your life,” or something ridiculously, protectively aggressive like that.

 

Deadpool slyly turns from facing the yelling man in the metal suit and, acting like he still has two functioning hands, puts his bleeding stump next to his face and uses his other finger to point. “Can you go get my hand?” He whisper-shouts at Spider-Man.

 

Peter finds it in himself to nod and dislodge Cap’s hand, trotting over to the severed hand and gingerly picking it up by the middle finger.

 

Oh, this is so gross.

 

“Hey, don’t talk to him!” Iron Man forcefully directs Deadpool’s attention back to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Spider-Man slides in smoothly with, laxly tossing Deadpool’s hand back to its waiting owner, “don’t talk to who?”

 

Poignant lull.

 

Deadpool bursts out laughing. “Your face fell an entire _mile,_ you giant metal schlong!”

 

Iron Man’s face plate slides closed. “I’m sorry,” he mockingly repeats, _“Spidey,_ I was wondering if you could explain just what went on there? I wasn’t aware that you _enjoyed_ being tackled and thrown across a room.”

 

“Seriously? It’s fine, he was just helping me.” Everybody seems to ignore the disgustingly visceral noises of Deadpool slotting his hand back onto his arm, so Peter tries very hard to do so as well. “There, there was aah... A problem. I wasn’t paying attention, but he was, and, I accidentally kicked him in the- well it technically wasn’t an accident, because- because I meant to do it in the moment, I guess, but um...” Somebody knock me out, this is painful. “Yeah, so… Can we just pretend that never happened? Please? Yes? Cool.”

 

“That was fun,” Deadpool claims, left hand holding his right wrist as his fingers twiddle back and forth experimentally, as if they’d never been severed in the first place. It’s unsettling. It’s _obscene._ “We should have another go at it! I’m pretty sure I could string that big thing up again and we could do a little _roleplaying,_ some _improv,_ you know what I’m talkin’ about – what do you say, Deadpal?”

 

“No.” Why are you like this. “No, thank you.” He turns himself back to Iron Man with a breathy noise that he didn’t mean to make, but it’s out there now, so no going back. “I’m sure Black Widow and Hawkeye could corroborate what we said happened with what they saw, right? See, no problems here.”

 

There’s a general hum of everybody’s comms coming to life at the same time.

 

Iron Man sniffs and squares his shoulders. “Well, at least I was one of the only people here _concerned._ Just remember that the next time this guy’s mood changes on a dime and you’ve got a bullet in the wall. Or that light bulb head of yours.” Then he walks off, apparently to go gossip with Captain America, who is looking very uncomfortable with all of this right now, eyes flicking towards the banana laxly posed on the floor like it’s the safest option in his opinion.

 

Peter can’t help another shaky sigh, feeling like putty. Gooey, smooth putty that slips onto the floor and collects all the gross dust and bacteria you can’t see but are aware of, so now the whole batch is ruined.

 

It takes him a few more seconds to intimately come to terms with two things in quick succession.

 

1) Deadpool’s (attached and functioning) hand has been resting lightly on his shoulder for the past few moments, and he didn’t even notice.

2) His spider-sense of the _Deadpool kind_ is absolutely silent, and has been since The Hand Incident transpired.

 

“Still haven’t lost those tacos all over the floor yet?” Deadpool questions, patting him once on the back before dropping their hand. “You’re a real trooper. I appreciate it.”

 

“Appreciate _what?”_ Peter gets out incredulously, one hand squeezing his own ribs in comfort.

 

“How come whenever I step in, everybody suddenly switches sides on me?” Iron Man complains to Captain America. Black Widow says something scathing over the comms that Peter can’t quite eavesdrop on.

 

“I think you did alright,” Cap responds, barely concealed amusement breaking through.

 

“Yea, you would think so,” Iron Man retorts. “He’s _your_ wonder boy.”

 

And now Spider-Man is completely done with that conversation.

 

“I know that we all just love and adore being a dramatic troupe and all,” he says loudly into the room, gaining everybody’s attention without the use of a comm, “but can we please get on with this? I feel like we’re about to run out of our ‘lets all stop and chat for ten hours in the middle of a dangerous mission’ luck.”

 

“It’s almost like the final boss is holding off so that we can have some last-minute character development squeezed in next to the plot or something.” Deadpool looks pointedly up towards the ceiling for unknown reasons.

 

“Spidey’s right,” Cap agrees, completely bypassing whatever the hell just came out of Deadpool’s mouth. “Nat, Clint – I’m gonna need to two to scout around a bit more, if you can. See if there’s anything else you can find that’s abnormal. Even if it’s just another suit on the floor.”

 

Speaking of – Deadpool’s wandered over to the supposed banana-suited drunk person that Peter is currently blaming for this whole mess. The only nudge to the senses he gets is when he makes himself focus hard on the banana suit.

 

No more Deadpool-dar, it seems.

 

He can’t tell what his emotions are about that right now, so he’s going to just… set that aside in his handy-dandy ‘Let’s Never Think About This Again’ mental pocket.

 

“Hey.” Captain America sidles over in that softly awkward way that makes some small part of Peter still intrinsically trust him. “I know Tony just gave you all the run-around, and _I_ know that _y_ _ou_ know that we all mean well, but...”

 

They share a look, twin glances landing on Deadpool for a few seconds (he’s currently flopping the banana suit’s limbs around. Weirdo) before their eyes meet again.

 

“Honestly? I’m fine. I’m more than fine right now.” He takes a deep breath. “And Deadpool… He’s ridiculous. I’ve seen him punch himself in the face. Twice. I think I can handle him.”

 

Cap gives him a dubious look, and is opening his mouth like he wants to say something, except somebody beats him to it on the comms. They apparently call him away, because he gives Peter a short wave and power walks over to where Tony is hidden behind a small stack of crates.

 

Shrugging, Peter hops his way over to the banana suit thing, absently watching Deadpool coo over something latched within the thing’s arms before he steps up and peers over its bulk to get a better look.

 

“Shh!” Deadpool shushes. “Its lil babby is _sleeping.”_

 

Sure enough, ‘cradled’ in the suit’s weird spaghetti noodle arms (not spaghetti noodle like _his_ arms, like… _actual_ spaghetti noodles) is a normal-sized version of itself, sans the sprouted limbs. Though, Peter notes, it still has those nodules that preclude limb spaces.

 

He shudders.

 

He’s going to have to pick that thing up, isn’t he?

 

On a scale of ‘Deadpool’s severed hand’ to ‘evil banana’, how _grossly_ does this rank?

 

Bending over, he pinches the tiny banana in between three fingers, ignoring Deadpool’s scandalized gasp to “support its head, you deadbeat!” as he lifts it to eye-height.

 

Yup. Looks exactly like the evil bananas currently marinating in his apartment, still zipped up and hidden away in Deadpool’s (accidentally stolen) duffle bag.

 

Now he wonders if it _smells_ like those bananas too…

 

The fruit in his apartment, once he decided to examine them further, had a smell to them that was unlike any banana he’d ever had the forethought to note before. It almost smelled like those ant poison traps that claim to be scentless, but are no such thing to Peter’s enhanced senses. A cloying, unnatural scent that trips his warning senses just enough to lightly warn him not to eat it.

 

Pulling up his mask so that it rests on the bridge of his nose, Peter pulls the banana close to his face and takes a couple of drags of the air surrounding it. He understands that he’s sucking up the particles of the _thing_ into his nose and his brain is creating olfactory signals, so he doesn’t want to be exposed to too much of it -

 

The banana is abruptly snatched from his hands, much in the way his taco was earlier.

 

Spider-Man clenches his fist and, with some misplaced annoyance, wishes that his Deadpool-dar still worked. Even just a little bit.

 

“Oh my god, you’re doing it so wrong,” Deadpool complains, stroking the banana reverently in what sounds like an honestly emotional tone of voice. Peter expects him to begin going on about the ‘baby’ thing again, but instead he waggles the banana around in a very non-baby-caring way. “You’re going to ruin banana eating going about it like that, how can you live with yourself!?”

 

Peter holds up one finger, opens his mouth, thinks about this entire situation, then goes limp and sighs at the floor.

 

“And just how, pray tell, am I supposed to eat a banana, given that I was going to eat that thing at all?” He asks, rolling his mask back into place.

 

Energetically, Deadpool gets into an… interesting position. Legs spread, both arms holding the banana, pointing it towards his face – specifically, his mouth, which he opens widely from behind the mask. “You’ve gotta pose with it – work with it, feel it! Is it a gun? Or is it the giant, stiff dick you’re roaring and ready to orally destroy!?”

 

The banana bursts in his hands, probably due to too much excited force.

 

“Whups,” is all he says, tossing his hands all about and flinging yellow goop everywhere.

 

Peter guards his face with his hands, wincing. “Nice,” he says sarcastically. Deadpool smiles genuinely at him, then he kind of feels like a jerk, but not really, because evil banana residue is disgusting.

 

With an indescribable _zap_ of his spidey-senses, Spider-Man finds himself light-footed and dancing away from the banana suit on the floor, once again honed in on the singular threat being mentally pointed out to him. He can distantly hear Deadpool saying something into the comms, but he’s awfully distracted by how the previously ‘lifeless’ suit begins to bonelessly rise from the floor.

 

“Hello, my ragtime gal!” Deadpool crows, unsheathing a sword and tilting his head as if in consideration. “Or, mayhaps should I say, my hollaback girl?”

 

“Wait,” Spider-Man stops the other, despite the clanging of warning bells. “There could be somebody in there -”

 

A quick slice, and the banana suit is chopped in half.

 

“Nah, just ugly squishy banana goop,” Deadpool says to a shell-shocked Peter. “Gross. Bananas are gross. You know, I think I was supposed to remember something important about bananas, but I just can’t _wag_ a finger at it right now...”

 

“Oh, and _now_ you remember!?” Spider-Man makes disgusted noises as he steps around the banana goop all over the floor, eyes roving over the fruit carnage. It looks just as otherworldly and cartoonish as one could imagine. His anger is quickly fleeting at the sight. “So… it’s just some kind of giant banana?”

 

“With arms and legs,” Deadpool points out too late to make a real difference, twirling his sword in a deceptively lax way. “Boy oh boy – I sure hope that the plot twist isn’t that there’s a hundred of these things just waiting to jump out at us.”

 

“I’m beginning to realize that everything you say ironically tends to come true.” Spider-Man rubs his forehead and pretends that he can’t feel a current of anxiety building up behind his rib cage.

 

Deadpool poses slightly. “I try.”

 

“We leave you two alone for three minutes and you’ve already made a mess.” Iron Man _tsk_ s as he _clomp-clomp-clomps_ over to survey the scene. Peter does the mature thing, and turns slightly away from him with crossed arms.

 

“He did it,” Deadpool immediately blames, even going so far as to point a finger at Spider-Man.

 

“Yea, obviously,” Peter snarks back. “Because I’m _totally_ the one holding a sword and covered in banana goo while you’re over there spotless.”

 

Deadpool wipes some yellow slop off the side of their face. “It seems that I’m sensing some… _sarcasm,_ from you. Would it be so forward of me to say that I am… correct?”

 

Spidey throws his arms up in exasperation right as Iron Man and Deadpool tilt their heads in sync. It’s sort of unnerving, until he remembers that they both have comms in their ears. Someone – Cap, Black Widow, or maybe Hawkeye – must be speaking.

 

“Amazing,” Iron Man mumbles softly. Deadpool pumps a fist in the air.

 

“ _Yes!”_ The merc shouts, whipping around to crowd into Peter’s space. “You owe me five smackaroos! Hand ‘em over, slippy.”

 

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking abo- _Oh,_ my god.”

 

There’s another banana suit (can they really call it a suit anymore though?) waddling around in a further part of the warehouse. Everybody’s just standing here like numb-nuts, watching the thing.

 

It is appropriately ominous. Ridiculous. Omni-diculous.

 

“So, there may or may not be a hidden room of these guys, or so says the other spider.” Deadpool shrugs nonchalantly, like this isn’t a _big fucking deal_ or anything.

 

Though, Iron Man doesn’t seem to be doing much panicking either, so maybe it isn’t.

 

Spider-Man noodles his arms around and makes a disgusted noise.

 

Well, if nobody else is going to do the proper thing and panic, then maybe he should step up to the ring.

 

“But, supposedly these things aren’t attacking anything or summoning any demons using their soft, mushy bodies as sacrifices, so...” Deadpool puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter slaps the hand away, overstimulated. “A’ight, a’ight; no touching the spider without permission.”

 

“ _Thank you,”_ Peter says gustily, giving Iron Man a pointed look, which is wasted because the guy isn’t even facing them.

 

Instead he’s facing the small army of walking, human-sized bananas that come toddling into their section of the warehouse.

 

Oh.

 

“Oh.”

 

The standing banana creatures all turn towards the group in one creepy, collective motion.

 

Ohhh, shit.

 

Deadpool leans over (causing Spider-Man to lean away slightly in response) and mock-whispers, “If you have any poo, fling it now.”

 

Peter could just _hit him._ Honestly!

 

...And if you look to your left, you’ll spy the hypocritical spider, who gets angry for seemingly no reason when somebody that is not it makes a joke first. Point and laugh, children. Point and _laugh._

 

“Enough from the peanut gallery!” Iron Man bursts off from the floor in a shot of twin bright lights, using his momentum to kick an advancing banana in the general area for the head, splitting the husk. “Engage, people!”

 

Deadpool unsheaths both swords, dangerously close to smacking Spider-Man with one, who hops away in surprise. “Don’t have to tell me twice.” He straight up lobs one of them at the bananas, spearing two down the middle and nicking another’s leg clean off behind them.

 

He goes jogging after the sword he tossed like this is a Monday morning gym visit, lightly singing, _“This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S...”_ while he goes.

 

“Good _god,”_ Spidey not-swears as he bodily shoves a banana away from him. They are about his height or shorter. He hopes that there aren’t any bigger than that, because then this could become a real _big_ problem.

 

As if reading his mind, Deadpool comes skipping back over, sweetly stinky banana mush covering each sword and some of his boot. “Man, isn’t it lucky that these are all your size? If they were any bigger, then we’d sure be in some banana shit, huh?”

 

The universe aligns.

 

An even gianter giant banana comes plodding from behind some conveniently placed large machinery.

 

“Oh, you’ve gotta be Cavendishin’ me,” Deadpool giggles, way too happy about all of this.

 

“I’m going up for a better look at just how many of these there are. And, actually, I’m pretty sure these are of the Gor flavor,” Peter can’t help but add before he launches himself up into the air using the metal scaffolding of the warehouse.

 

Too late does he realize the reason why he can’t see Iron Man zooming around anywhere as his senses kick him in the butt, causing him to fall backward gracelessly from his perch as a handful of small, but still creepy, bananas come flying at him at mach speed, probably launched from somewhere.

 

He lands on his feet, thankfully, though not without stumbling into a nearby shambling banana. It tries to grab him, deceptively agile with those noodle arms. A sword comes out of nowhere and slices said arms off, and the banana keels over as if in shock, smacking up against something that looks like a cryo-tube of the perfect size.

 

...Actually, _is_ that a real cryo-tube?

 

Peter leans in and smacks his hands all over it as if he can tell if it’s a _bona fide_ cryo-tube via touch.

 

...Holy shit it’s a real cryo-tube.

 

What are cryo-tubes doing in here?

 

“What are cryo-tubes doing in here!?” Spider-Man asks aloud, popping up next to Deadpool on the floor, who lets out a little yelp that turns into a laugh.

 

“Uhh, obviously, for the banana-magic of a frozen banana treat?” Deadpool slashes at the giant banana’s feet, making it dance. “Duuh.”

 

“Banana-magic… Frozen banana treat?” Peter makes a high-pitched noise of interest, rapidly smacking at Deadpool’s arms and shaking them around in excitement. “Deadpool! Dead pool dead pool dead pool pool dead -”

 

“Yes!? Holy shit, ow, stop smacking me, what did I do!? Feed a spider a taco or three and suddenly he thinks he’s your pimp -”

 

Peter giggles, grabbing both of their hands and leaning in close to whisper-shout, _“We can pickle it!_ Deadpool, we can -”

 

“Ohhh! Oh my god, _yes -”_ Deadpool now sounds just as if not more excited, sheathing his swords and totally ignoring how a small waterfall of goo comes gushing out as it’s displaced. _“FUCK YES,_ I like your style, Spidey -”

 

“Less talking, more realizing my dream of having one of my plans actually work for once!” Spidey bounces his way up to the top of the cryo-tube, prying it open with a leg and getting a gander at the controls. Good – it seems to have power.

 

Which is bizarre, considering this entire place looks dead (apart from its aggressive fruit), but he’ll worry about that after he freezes the banana.

 

“ _Yeehaw!”_ Deadpool shouts as he kicks the giant banana, causing it to stumble halfway into the chamber. “Back, back, ye Dickus Mightus!”

 

Spider-Man smacks his hands onto the metal chamber with excited fingers as he waits for the banana to be fully seated inside before hitting the button to close the doors.

 

They both cheer and high-five each other when the giant banana freezes over like a statue.

 

“Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring,” Peter sings under his breath.

 

He’s utterly surprised when Deadpool belts out, “Banana phone! Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring -” They bodily tackle a banana out of the way. “Banana phone!”

 

“I’ve got this feeling,” Peter continues despite really kind of not wanting to – his mind just latched onto the song and now it won’t let go, especially since his partner is continuing without hesitation.

 

“It’s so apeeeeeeealing,” Deadpool smoothly slices the ‘head’ off of a normal-sized mutated banana.

 

“For us to get together and sing!” Spider-Man kicks a banana down and desperately wonders why this is his life.

 

“Sing!” They accidentally smack into each other in their mad scramble to fight and sing at the same time. “Ring ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone -”

 

“Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding, danana phoooone -”

 

Their little duet is interrupted when an ear-splitting whistle sounds and a giant piece of machinery they’d assumed safe begins to split open.

 

Spider-Man trips over his own feet and misfires the webbing he was about to shoot. He ends up trapped in the corner between the cryo-tube’d banana and the wall, twisting around and around in confusion and panic until he forces himself to calm down and hope that nobody saw -

Deadpool’s looking right at him.

 

Peter lets out a keen of pure embarrassment.

 

_Of course somebody saw._

 

Deadpool softly sings, _“Boop-_ _boo-ba-doo-ba-doop_ _,”_ and it makes him feel marginally better, though not any less stuck. He cranes his head around the side of the chamber to see what’s going on, furiously working his fingers through his webbing to loosen it because he’s a horrible spider and he should be banned from spider-ing ever again.

 

Captain America’s shouts of, “Civilian, civilian – cease fire, cease fire!” Can be heard even by Spider-Man in his comm-less state, and everyone whirls around to watch the giant mechanical machine they’d all presumed too broken to function move to release its human pilot.

 

“Wait!” Shouts the person, spreading their plaid-covered farmer arms in a farmer-ish way. All of the bananas halt at their command, as do the Avengers, because obviously they have no idea how to deal with a dangerous yet cheesy villain.

 

Spider-Man’s disappointed; you don’t just _stop_ when the guy dressed as a skunk asks you to!

 

He’s learned that lesson the hard way...

 

Unfortunately, Spider-Man is too busy being stuck with his foot in his own webbing just out of sight at the moment, which is both a blessing (because nobody can make fun of him if they can’t see him) and a curse, because now he can’t berate the Avengers for their obviously novice move.

 

“Now, just hold on a moment, folks,” announces the farmer, arms still raised in control. “I suppose there’s been a misunderstanding, right here.”

 

“How is a giant, mutated banana army considered a ‘misunderstanding’?” Questions Deadpool with one arm raised like this is a classroom or something. Somebody must yell at him over the comm, because he mumbles, “just asking for the audience, cool your fools.”

 

“Well, I didn’t mean for my creations to attack y’all. They’re just my little helpers, y’see -”

 

“Creations?” Iron Man repeats, heavy in doubt. “And just why is a farmer ‘creating’ these things here, in the middle of the urban jungle?”

 

“It was an accident, at first,” the farmer interludes, giving Peter the opportune time to wriggle out of his webbing at last. “I had just meant to revive banana farming in a new and intuitive way that would eliminate the chance of another extinction. But when my bananas up and grew and started walkin’ all over the place, I couldn’t just give up! Or destroy them. They’re like my children, almost, if y’all can understand.”

 

Peter stumbles out from the corner and attempts to look like he’d been there all along, taking notes and definitely not late to class or anything, professor. Yes, I _do_ normally sit all the way here in the back next to the guy who drinks vodka out of a water bottle, even though you know and I know that I’m too autistic to choose a different seat than normal and please stop staring at me, prof, it’s making me nervous -

 

“SPIIIDER-MAAAN!”

 

The voice is so surprising and boisterous that Peter jumps and looks back at the door to the warehouse like J. Jameson has somehow tracked him down solely to yell him into submission or something.

 

Deadpool nudges his shoulder and he spins around, coming to the realization that it’s just the banana farmer who’s yelling. Whew.

 

Oh, wait. No ‘whew’ - they look pretty evil right now. They didn’t seem so evil before when they were talking about their bananas like a kid talks about their first science project, but now they look like an even more cartoonish version of themself.

 

“Um, yes?” He would’ve yelled ‘FUCK’ back equally as loud, but he’s got an image to uphold here.

 

“You are the most bio-genetically engineered of all the bio-genetically engineered riffraff out there!” The machine putters to life at the farmer’s movements, a giant metal arm like in the first live-action-animated Scooby Doo movie arching out and snapping its pincers menacingly. “Why, with just a sample or two or twelve of you, I could make my babies one of a kind, jus’ you see!”

 

“Er...” He had never expected that his casual remarks of ‘well I got bit by a spider and then I woke up like this’ would be taken so seriously. Especially by people he’s never met before. “I’m not so sure that that’s such a true statement.”

 

Peter wants to smack his fifteen-year-old self. Like, he wants to smack himself regardless, but right now it’s doubly so.

 

“Now, just get on in here, little fella,” coos the farmer with their giant metal arm, which is now actually trying to scuffle Spidey into a cage like he’s an actual spider, “this won’t hurt but a mite.” They hold up a really really big syringe.

 

“No, no, no, no...” Iron Man sighs, slicing through the side of the arm with a repulser, halting the movement. “Okay, this wackadoodle is getting on my nerves. Cap, if you would – _OOF!”_

 

Banana goop goes everywhere as the farmer laughs. A giant banana had launched itself at Iron Man in a kamikaze move, splattering itself and working its gooey way in between his metal plates like a particularly bad case of mold.

 

Captain America looks mildly concerned as he calls, “Avengers, let’s go!” And all of the ‘official’ Avengers spring into action, each going for the Farmer and yet inevitably getting stopped by the massive mutated banana army.

 

Spider-Man has to punch his own advancing banana (hahahahahaaaa Oh My God), noting out of the corner of his eye how the farmer has begun to repair the giant metal grappling arm that tried to snatch him up earlier.

 

“Who is this country fried bitch?” Deadpool spits, sidling up to Peter with both swords drawn and utterly defiled with banana. “And what in the goddamn is all this Scrappy-Doo shit?”

 

Spider-Man sighs. “Oh, just another ‘wackadoodle’ that wants the secret to the Spider. You’d be -” He has to dodge hastily as Deadpool slashes a banana way too close to his face. “Oh, thankyou – you’d be surprised at how many people try to do that, despite me being nowhere close to the ‘epitome of the bio-genetically engineered.’ That’d probably be literally any other mutate out there? The fruit battalion is new, though.”

 

Although Peter considers himself a pretty good storyteller, Deadpool doesn’t seem to be listening at this point. In fact, they appear to be staring solely at the farmer up above. Peter begins to sweat nervously, smacking a banana out of the way when it tries to get fresh and grab him.

 

Deadpool pulls out a gun. “I’m ‘bout’a Quick Draw McGraw this guy’s ass.”

 

Before Spider-Man can shout the perfunctory “No! Bad Deadpool! Bad!” a loud whirring noise interrupts them, tickling his spidey-senses something awful. And it isn’t because Iron Man is in the corner cussing up a storm trying to dig banana goo out of his servos while Hawkeye stands overtop and shoots bananas at a distance.

 

Well aware of his lessening time frame, as Deadpool seems to be getting an itchy trigger finger and is pelting the side of the metal arm with bullets that are about as effective as stuffed animals, Spider-Man casts around for some kind of idea.

 

“What about that big tank over there?” He throws out into the ‘desperately bargaining’ pile, pointing obnoxiously in front of Deadpool’s sight so that they’re forced to acknowledge him. “If we can poke a hole in it, I’m pretty sure the pressurized gas can get us some cover. Then we can think of a real plan.”

 

“Yea, since the Banavengers don’t seem to be any help,” Deadpool scoffs. Spider-Man looks over just in time to see Black Widow honest-to-god slide through banana slick on the floor and almost fall on her ass.

 

Wow. Amazing. If only he had his camera.

 

“Okay, I’ll take a bite.” Deadpool lines up a shot at the tank. “Or a hit. Hehehe.”

 

_Blam!_

 

There goes the hearing in his right ear for the next five minutes.

 

Like Peter’d predicted, gas pours out, coating the ground in a thick layer of scentless, steamy something.

 

Boy oh boy, he hopes this stuff isn’t flammable or anything.

 

He can’t be concerned for too long, however, seeing as the giant metal arm is no longer tentatively probing the layer of unidentifiable smog, and is instead smashing its way haphazardly around, trying to snag anything in the lowered visibility. Instead, all they manage to do is crush some lost bananas and knock over anything in the way that isn’t soldered to the floor.

 

“Wow! So much for ‘my precious babiessss’, huh?” Deadpool tugs Spider-Man over to a stack of boxes, climbing up to the top where the air is slightly clearer.

 

“If mini-mutated bananas start flying towards us, we need to get down,” he helpfully informs his companion as they crouch on top of their safety pile and listen to the Avengers all swear and knock into stuff. It feels good, it feels organic.

 

“Gotcha.” Deadpool lifts the side of their mask and scratches at their ear. Blood bubbles up, but they slide their mask back into place too quickly for Peter to become truly concerned. “Well, as nice as this little rendezvous is, shouldn’t we be thinking of some way to lessen the chaos in here? The setting is on ‘Ultra High’, though I assure you it can go higher if you want it to.”

 

“No, thank you. Ultra High Chaos is kosher for now.”

 

Deadpool nods, relaxing back onto his hands. He begins to hum the Banana Phone song, bobbing his head along. Spider-Man begins to de-tense, weirdly enough. If this weren’t in the middle of a gas-flooded warehouse with mutated fruit fights and an angry, evil farmer out for some Spider Blood, it would almost be fun. Peaceful. Just two dudes trying to become closer as pals.

 

Speaking of ‘becoming closer’…

 

“Lemme up,” Peter demands, apropos of nothing, crawling over to Deadpool’s shoulders and nudging against their back.

 

“’kay,” Deadpool concedes way too easily, allowing Spider-Man to stand atop their shoulders and scan the area. “Get any good peeks, city boy?”

 

“Gimme a second! I just got up here, mountain top,” Peter ribs back, scanning the area for any clues or ideas.

 

Deadpool grabs his ankles, presumably to steady him (which is unnecessary because um, hello? Spider-Man?) For a small moment, Peter feels himself caught in between the teeth of a tiger.

 

But the feeling passes as soon as it overcomes him, and he’s back to ignoring how Iron Man totally just fell down for the fifth time tonight. It’s spiced up by how Hawkeye is dragged down, too. Captain America is holding his head with one hand and trying to herd the Avengers towards the warehouse door with the other, likely trying to retreat and regroup and think of a plan.

 

Too bad Spider-Man and Deadpool are about to have an awesome plan and totally save the day without needing the Avengers.

 

Aw, yea. So smart. Definitely gonna work. Nothing can go wrong.

 

“You know, you could’ve just got up on the scaffolding to do this,” Deadpool comments lowly in a way that doesn’t quite break through Peter’s concentrated mind fog. “Methinks the lady doth want to be close to me all of a sudden. Methinks why is that? Methinks it’s because Lady Spidey wants to be buddies with Claudius-pool.”

 

“That line is commonly misquoted, did you know?” Peter infodumps without thinking too much about it, zooming in on a specific lever the Angry Banana Farmer (let’s just abbreviate that to ABF from now on) hovers over. Bingo. “’Methinks’ is supposed to be at the end. Also, wasn’t that line said by Hamlet’s mom, the Queen?”

 

“But the Queen’s husband died, so she married his brother, Claudius, and Hamlet was like ‘oh noes he totally murdered my dad, gotta expose him.’ And then -”

 

“I’ve got an idea,” Spider-Man interrupts the opposing infodump like a hypocrite, climbing down off of Deadpool’s shoulders with more awkwardness than he climbed up them with.

 

“Whoaa, really? Because I was just pretending to think while mentally lining up a shot...”

 

“No, no, no, no! You are not shooting them!” Spider-Man swats the finger gun Deadpool had put up in the air, aimed at the ABF’s head. “Now, this might sound weirdly complicated and bizarre, but -”

 

“I love that kind of shit. Lay it on me.”

 

“A man out for my heart. Great, awesome. Okay so...”

 

Ten minutes, a hastily repeated explanation, and one shoddy enactment that went nowhere real fast later…

 

“Put ‘em up, pardner!” Deadpool calls, standing atop the highest platform they could find in view of the ABF. “’Lest you want this varmint to be locked up tight. In _Hell!”_ In his hands are a sword and a gun, the gun pointed towards Spider-Man’s head and the sword is…

 

Well. The sword is somewhere not Spider-Man approved, that’s for sure.

 

“Don’t you think this is a little overkill?” Spider-Man whispers over his shoulder, surreptitiously trying and failing to nudge the sword away from his crotch.

 

“Gotta show ‘em I’m serious. Besides, I should protect the goods, y’know?”

 

“No, I do not know. But if you think it’s necessary...”

 

“Hehe.” That giggle is not comforting in the slightest.

 

“Somethin’ in my Southern heart doubts you’d do that to your teammate, Mr. Pool.” ABF calls out, the metal arm at the ready. They’ve got several mutated bananas guarding them up on their machine, and Spider-Man quietly curses at how none of them thought to stop them from climbing the thing to do so. Maybe nobody could see it happening. “Now, why don’t you put that Godless weapon down and -”

 

Abruptly and with absolutely no jabber from his Spidey-senses, he’s being jerked forward, sword resting concernedly against his inner thigh and gun barrel digging into the side of his head.

 

“You think this is some fucking Cable TV shit?” Deadpool shouts. They sound… actually angry. It’s worrying. But not as worrying as the silence of his senses. Not a peep, and the sword has surely cut into his suit by now. Man, that’s gonna be an awkward hole to deal with. “It’s just perfect, you know? None of these bozos even considered that I was only taking this ‘mission’ to get close to Spider-Man!”

 

Uh…

 

“And even if they did, they didn’t stop to think that maybe it wasn’t because I’m a desperate whore or whatever they see me as, but instead the mercenary that never stopped taking hits! Big, money-lubbing hits!”

 

Erm…

 

“Do you know how much money I’d be getting for pulling Spider-Man’s sorry corpse from the trunk of a car?”

 

Peter’s beginning to hope the Avengers suddenly jump up from somewhere and make this plan fall apart, because he’s getting mighty uncomfortable here. He’s afraid that maybe Deadpool’s forgotten the plan in their overzealous performance, or maybe…

 

Maybe…

 

“More money than if you’d sold every single banana in the world ten times over!”

 

Maybe… they were never in on the plan to begin with.

 

Spider-Man begins to breathe bit heavier. _“Deadpool,”_ he chokes out, but can’t seem to say anything else.

 

Deadpool jerks and sucks in air, throwing their head down so quickly that their chin bonks painfully into the crown of Spider-Man’s head.

 

ABF is shouting some things and getting all worked up and there’s a few yelling voices that go nowhere from the outside of the warehouse plus a bunch of curse words from several people, but up on the platform, there is a tense pause that lasts much too long to be strategically smart.

 

Spider-Man tries to calm down by slowly leaning his head back into Deadpool’s chest. He can’t quite look up to meet their eyes, but he hopes they understand the sentiment.

 

Trust is a two-way street.

 

Peter can hear the way Deadpool tries to quietly slurp up the drool they no doubt accumulated from leaving their mouth open for too long.

 

“Sorry about that, little spaghetti buddy of mine,” Deadpool eventually croaks out, the force from the gun lessening and the bite of the blade no longer pinching. “I’m gonna cover your ears now. Kosher?”

 

Peter has to swallow a mouthful of spit himself. “Kosher.”

 

“Niiice.” Then they spin Spider-Man around, smushing one ear to their chest and covering the other ear with the hand that’s dropped the sword. A muffled gunshot.

 

Gas spills and re-coats the room in an even thicker layer. This time, however, the gas has a distinct smell to it. A smell that has Peter rocketing away from Deadpool’s chest and peering over the platform. He breathes in too deep, and regrets it when he chokes.

 

“Shit. This stuff isn’t safe. Maybe I shouldn’t have added ‘shoot the other barrel’ to the plan,” Peter says mostly to himself, almost surprised when Deadpool comes crouching over with him and smacks their lips into the air like they’re getting a taste for the caviar.

 

“Mm, tastes flammable and lung-damaging.” Deadpool reaches over to cover Spider-Man’s nose and mouth with a hand and gets it smacked away. They don’t seem too beat up about it, flicking their gun in the air thoughtfully. “Whose plan was this again?”

 

“I might not need glasses anymore, but even I couldn’t read the label from so far away!” Spider-Man grouses. ABF yells and flings the metal arm around. The Avengers have all probably left in snooty disgust or are regrouping outside assuming both Spider-Man and Deadpool are dead while getting ready to bomb the area and neither of them will know because Peter’s pretty sure Deadpool accidentally scratched their comm right out of their ear earlier without thinking about it. “I’d just assumed it’d be the same stuff from before, okay?”

 

“Assuming makes an ass.” Deadpool stands without finishing the saying, aiming again through the gassy air but unable to locate the target completely, thank frick. “So, everything’s gonna get set on bigblazing fire in a few minutes?” A lot whistle. “I like this plan now.”

 

“What?”

 

Deadpool points at the equipment that the ABF’s rapture arm had broken, sparks flying and lighting up the gas in the air in small increments, though building with each explosion.

 

“Aw, dangit.” Spider-Man readies his webshooters. “Meet me up in the rafters, it’s too clouded down here.”

 

Belatedly, as he’s crouched up there waiting impatiently, he remembers that Deadpool can’t get up here as easily as he can. Because their teleportation device magically disappeared while they were racing with tacos. He smacks himself in the forehead.

 

“Hey now, none of that.”

 

Peter screeches lightly, flinging himself backwards away from Deadpool’s voice, which is way too close and slightly out of breath.

 

They’re clinging to the rafters like a limpet, panting and looking at him like he’s the crazy one.

 

“How did you…? Ugh, okay, nevermind.” He files it under ‘Mysteries About Deadpool That I Don’t Want To Solve.’ “Time for Phase Two.”

 

“Mmm, my favorite.”

 

“Can I trust you with these?” Spider-Man proffers his webshooters, watching as the hanging barnacle scrambles up to loosely sprawl instead of cling.

 

“ _Can_ you!” Deadpool makes grabby hands, though interestingly, he doesn’t quite touch the spidery tech just yet. “C’mon, c’mon – I’m like a vampire, you’ve gotta give me permission to touch your _stuff -”_

 

“Okay, here you go! Please don’t destroy them, I made them myself and they’re very...” Deadpool slaps them onto their wrists and crows at the ceiling in pure jubilation, “expensive… uh, okay just be careful. You remember what to do, ri -”

 

Deadpool’s already launched themself off the scaffolding with a “BANZAI!” and a web shot that misses its target and lands them squarely in the path of the metal arm, which snatches them up faster than Peter can wince.

 

And then they disappear into the ghost white film.

 

“ _Aagh!_ Pointy things! Non-consensual ones! Gross!” Deadpool screams from somewhere. “No! No _moleste mosquito!”_ A meaty thwack followed by the farmer’s incensed yelling.

 

Oh, god. Peter should probably get down there already.

 

Carefully crawling along the ceiling with his sticky hands and feet, Spider-Man hustles it when he hears Deadpool hiss out a long expletive and then giggle manically, claiming something about, “Too bad I’m the discount version, or else this really would’ve been your day, chump.”

 

“Wuh!?” ABF stumbles back, syringe full of the wrong blood in hand, as the gas clears just enough for them to see that it is not, in fact, Spider-Man that they got in their glorified crab-claw, but instead the other guy.

 

You know. _That_ other guy.

 

Spider-Man (literally) gets the drop on ABF, dispatching their banana guards with a whirlwind kick that makes him feel totally rad.

 

He feels totally un-rad when he realizes that he accidentally hit ABF in the process.

 

All posed and ready to gasp with his hands over his mouth and apologize, Peter pauses when he sees that… The entire upper torso of ABF is gone.

 

Because it’s banana goop.

 

...They could’ve shot the ABF from the beginning this whole time and everything would’ve been over and done with very quickly and not slowly suffocating them and catching everything on fire.

 

But no. Because somebody just had to ask Spider-Man to come.

 

Peter says nothing, reaching over to quickly pull the lever to release Deadpool from the claw clutches, wincing when they fall and disappear down into what is now looking like the crater off the side of a waterfall, what with all the white clouds blocking everything and making it seem endless.

 

So, great. Their Villain Of The Week (VotW, if you will) is actually just a mutant banana that gained sentience (or maybe a scientific farmer that became what they preached?) and now Peter just dropped his newest, tentative friend down into the unknown, which will be catching on ‘bigblazing fire’ at any moment now.

 

He’s choking more now that he was before, and there’s way more fire popping in the gaseous trenches (lmao) down below than he’s comfortable with, but Deadpool fell into said trenches with his webshooters, and he can’t jump down and run with all the small random explosions stealing what little oxygen is left, and he can’t crawl on the walls because they’re metal-treated and also on fire, and-

 

Wow. He is so majorly fucked? He didn’t fully comprehend it when he had the chance, and now he is so very fucked at this moment that the panic is beginning to eat at the corners of his mind and he’s just standing here like a doof, no plan because his last plan is currently trying to get him killed.

 

Claxons, alarms, pots and pans banging together, whichever one you want to describe it as – his spidey-sense is having a field day, and there’s nothing to stop it because he is in _so much danger right now._

 

The Avengers? Deadpool? Nowhere to be seen.

 

God, he can only hope they all made it out okay. Like he obviously is not going to.

 

“A Storm of the Johnny persuasion sure would be helpful right about now!” Peter whispers furiously to himself amidst the smoke, gagging on the banana-smell and wringing his hands together fitfully as he reaches out towards the walls only to shrink back when his palms come away too hot to bear. “Or a friendly mercenary who can literally get their hand cut off then re-attach it like it’s nooo big deal!”

 

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

 

He’s going to have to save himself, isn’t he?

 

Peter’s pushed away so many friends because of his ‘ooo totally hard to handle, impossible double life, ooo’ and now he’s paying for it. Even Johnny couldn’t stand him after that… thing, with Venom.

 

No backup. No team.

 

No friends.

 

…Right, then.

 

Peter’s gloves melt into his hands and feet as he climbs hurriedly up the wall, to the ceiling, where the exploding gas is minimal but the smoke and heat is at an all time high. He has to grapple with the scaffolding, metal, too hot, and ignore the way his body sweats and how the microhairs on his palms and feet are surely being damaged.

 

He’s not going to make it, he thinks feverishly, door in sight but not really.

 

He’s not going to make it.

 

He’s not going to -

 

“Weeeeheheheh! Deadpal in need of rescue: spotted! Comin’ right at’cha, Spidey! Cowabun- GUH!”

 

Something slams into his side right as he is throwing himself between two metal support beams. He goes flying, and flying, and flying, but not falling, because he never loses altitude, and he distantly begins to appreciate how Deadpool can literally survive anything and is still there in time to save the day, even though he greatly would’ve preffered the scenario where he’d be using his webshooters himself and wouldn’t need to be saved, and -

 

And then the warehouse blows up.

 

Peter _burns._ He can’t tell what is up and what is down, can’t hear over the climbing ringing in his ears, can’t feel over his terror. Is Deadpool still carrying him through the air, or is that the force of the explosion?

 

He lands, but it can’t be on the ground because he’s sinking into breathless wet, and everything’s dark and cold.

 

And then _he_ goes dark and cold.

 

Sinking. Dark. Cold.

 

Painful unconsciousness is a familiar feeling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there are mistakes. tell me. i will be all embarrassed about it but at least i'll know and fix it.
> 
> EDIT: speak of the Fcking devil; if any of you saw that "your eyes. Are Insert The Fucking AO3 Line. Your breasts. Are also Insert The Fucking AO3 Line." where the AO3 line break now is, I'm Sorry, but also, this is the second time that I've done that, so. just So.

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline (basically everything but the first half of CH4 happens at night):  
> CH1: Late Tuesday night/early Wednesday morning  
> CH2: Wednesday night  
> CH3: Early Thursday morning  
> CH4: Thursday morning/midday - Thursday night  
> CH5: Friday night  
> CH6: Early Saturday morning  
> CH7: issa secret


End file.
